—THE  DIARY— 

OFABOOK-A  GENT 


LIBRARY 

UNW£RSITYOF 
CALIFORNIA 

DIEGO 


THE    DIARY    OF 
A    BOOK-AGENT 


BY 

ELIZABETH    LINDLEY 


COPYRIGHT,  1911, 

BY 
(ELIZABETH  LINDLEY. 


No  claim  of  literary  merit  is  made  for  this  small 
volume.  Its  pages  are  just  a  record  of  incidents 
which  really  occurred,  highly  colored,  perhaps — but 
nevertheless  true. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


The  Diary  of  a  Book  Agent 

Saturday,  July  7th. 

I  have  just  returned  from  answering  an  "ad"  for 
a  book  agent.  Am  perfectly  delighted  with  the  con 
tract  I  made,  and  now  feel  that  I  was  very  stupid 
to  have  wasted  so  much  time  grieving  in  poverty  on 
account  of  my  pride. 

The  manager  who  engaged  me  is  such  a  kind, 
considerate  man.  He  said  he  would  charge  me 
only  $3.00  for  a  sample  copy,  for  which  all  the 
other  agents  pay  $5.00,  and  the  best  of  it  is,  I  am 
guaranteed  a  salary  of  $35.00  per  week.  Just  think 
of  it!  Why  I  can  live  well,  dress  swell,  and  save  a 
little  for  a  rainy  day.  Thirty-five  dollars  a  week 
seems  like  a  fortune  to  me  after  three  years  of 
pinching  and  economy,  and  he  says  it  is  very  easy 
to  get  orders.  All  I  have  to  do  is  to  call  on  the 
ladies  with  whose  names  he  has  furnished  me,  show 

3 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

my  book,  following  his  instructions  closely,  and  he 
assures  me  that  almost  every  person  I  see  will  sub 
scribe,  as  it  is  such  a  beautiful  edition  of  Shake 
speare's  works,  and  is  limited  to  five  hundred  sub 
scribers.  The  manager  says  he  has  several  agents 
who  have  already  turned  in  two  or  three  hundred 
orders  each,  and  he  feels  sure  that  I  will  do  equally 
well,  if  not  better.  Dear  me,  I  wish  it  were  Satur 
day  already,  I  am  just  dying  to  get  a  blue  voile 
dress. 


July  Qth. 

Worked  all  day  and  did  not  take  a  single  order. 
I  got  a  little  discouraged  and  went  to  the  office. 
The  manager  said  not  to  feel  badly  over  it,  as  some 
agents  worked  a  week  without  taking  any  orders, 
then  the  next  week  would  get  fifty  or  sixty.  He  ad 
vised  me  to  try  downtown,  thought  perhaps  I  was 
better  adapted  to  canvass  gentlemen,  as  I  was  young 
— and  he  flattered  me  by  adding  good  looking. 

But  having  been  told  by  so  many  persons  that 
they  had  fine  editions  of  Shakespeare,  I  was  not  ex 
actly  satisfied  with  the  result  of  my  day's  labor,  and 
on  my  way  home  I  called  at  another  publisher's  and 

4 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

took  the  agency  for  Mark  Twain's  works.    I  am  to 
canvass  for  these  books  on  commission. 


July  i  oth. 

My  first  call  this  A.  M.  was  on  a  nice  old  gentle 
man,  who,  after  looking  over  my  samples  and  listen 
ing  to  me  patiently,  patted  me  kindly  on  the  shoul 
der  and  said : 

"I  am  afraid,  my  dear,  you  will  find  selling  books 
a  very  difficult  matter,  for  the  percentage  of  people 
who  buy  books  is  small,  very  small  indeed.  Now, 
I  have  an  article  that  I  am  putting  on  the  market, 
something  that  is  needed  in  every  household,  an 
embalming  fluid,  guaranteed  to  preserve  everything 
from  mincemeat  to  dead  bodies."  He  noticed  that 
I  shuddered  a  little. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  he  said  solemnly,  "we  all  must 
come  to  that  some  day,  and  this  fluid,  which  costs 
only  one  dollar,  will  do  the  work  for  which  the  un 
dertaker  charges  $20.00.  It  is  a  wonderful  idea — 
every  man  his  own  undertaker." 

I  declined  several  times  to  interfere  with  the  un 
dertaker's  business,  but  finding  it  impossible  to  get 

5 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

away  from  the  insistent  chemist,  I  accepted  the 
agency  and  left  with  a  bottle  of  the  fluid.  Deposit 
ing  it,  and  the  circular  he  gave  me,  behind  the  radia 
tor  in  the  hallway,  I  opened  the  door  of  another  of 
fice,  and  stepping  noiselessly  in,  walked  up  to  a 
portly,  important-looking  man  who  sat  behind  a 
large  desk  in  the  centre  of  the  room. 

"Would  you  like  to  look  at  a  new  edition  of 
Shakespeare's  works  ?"  I  timidly  asked. 

"Chestnuts,"  he  said,  and  continued  writing  with 
out  looking  up.  Feeling  a  little  embarrassed,  I  went 
to  the  back  of  the  office  where  five  or  six  young  men 
were  busy  with  their  books. 

"Would  you  like  to  look  at  a  new  edition  of  Mark 
Twain's  works?"  I  inquired  of  the  first. 

"Not  interested,"  he  replied  with  chilling  indif 
ference. 

"Would  you  ?"  I  almost  whispered  to  the  second. 

"Nothin'  doin',"  he  answered  bluntly. 

"Can't  I  show  you?"  I  asked  the  third,  trying  to 
brighten  up. 

"Not  in  the  market." 

"How  about  you?" 

6 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

"Count  me  out,"  was  the  polite  request 

At  this  juncture  a  youngish-looking  old  man,  near 
whom  I  was  standing,  pointed  to  a  desk  further 
down,  as  if  advising  me  to  try  that  man.  Only  too 
glad  to  get  a  little  encouragement,  I  walked  over 
and,  with  a  feeling  of  confidence,  took  a  vacant 
chair  near  the  desk. 

"The  gentleman  over  there  thought  you  might 
like  to  look  at  this/'  I  said,  placing  my  sample  be 
fore  him. 

"Mark  Twain — he  is  only  jesting.  Why,  I  have 
all  his  works,  and  Shakespeare's,  too,"  he  added  as 
his  eye  caught  the  title  of  my  other  prospectus. 
"You  rascal,  I  will  get  even  with  you  for  this,"  he 
shook  his  finger  in  the  direction  of  his  friend.  "He 
knows,  my  dear  young  lady,  that  I  have  threatened 
to  kill  the  first  book  agent  who  approached  me." 

"But  I  am  not  a  book  agent,"  I  replied,  with  a 
timid  smile.  "This  is  my  first  attempt — I  am  only 
trying  it." 

"Too  bad ;  hate  to  turn  you  down ;  but  have  sev 
eral  sets  of  the  works  which  you  are  selling.  Yet 
stop,  perhaps  I  may  be  able  to  help  you  out,"  he 

7 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

added  thoughtfully.  Then  he  stepped  over  to  the 
man  who  pointed  him  out  to  me.  After  a  short 
talk  he  came  back. 

"Do  you  know  a  Mr.  Clemens,  or,  rather,  have 
you  ever  called  on  a  Mr.  Clemens  with  reference  to 
this  work?"  he  inquired,  gravely  stroking  his  beard. 

I  replied  that  I  had  not  called  on  any  gentleman 
named  Clemens. 

"Then  I  think  if  you  take  this  to  him  you  will 
make  a  sale  there,"  and  seating  himself  at  his  desk 
he  wrote  the  following  letter,  which  he  read  aloud : 

"Mv  DEAR  MR.  CLEMENS  : 

"Knowing  how  highly  you  appreciate  the  works 
of  Mark  Twain,  and  that  above  all  others  you  con 
sider  him  the  greatest  humorist  and  genius  of  the 
age,  I  take  great  pleasure  in  introducing  this  young 
lady,  who  is  selling  a  very  fine  edition  of  his  works. 
Yours  sincerely,  etc.,  etc. 

"Take  this  right  up  to  him  now,  and  you  will  find 
him  in.  I  was  talking  to  him  over  the  phone  not 
twenty  minutes  ago." 

Hurrying  out,  I  boarded  an  uptown  car,  and  was 
soon  at  the  address  given.  I  confess  to  a  little  feel 
ing  of  anxiety  as  I  inquired:  "Is  Mr.  Clemens  in?" 

8 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

I  was  told  that  he  was,  and  giving  my  card  to  the 
maid,  I  stepped  into  the  reception  room. 

A  slight  noise  in  the  adjoining  parlor  attracted 
my  attention,  and  on  looking  up  I  was  more  than 
surprised  to  see  the  original  of  the  picture  in  my 
sample  copy. 

"Clemens,  Clemens,"  I  muttered,  then  it  dawned 
on  me  that  I  was  the  victim  of  a  practical  joke.  I 
could  feel  the  angry  blood  burning  in  my  cheeks,  as 
I  thought  of  the  fun  those  men  were  having  at  my 
expense.  But  before  I  could  think  of  what  to  say 
or  do,  Mr.  Clemens  entered  the  room,  and  I  found 
myself  tendering  him  the  letter.  One  glance  at  his 
face  and  I  determined  to  play  my  part  out. 

He  read  the  letter  through,  then  over  again.  A 
twinkle  in  his  eye,  and  a  slight  twitching  of  the 
muscles  of  his  mouth  were  the  only  indications  I 
had  that  he  appreciated  the  situation.  I  stood  de 
murely  by,  looking  innocently  down,  wondering 
what  was  going  to  happen  next. 

"Taken  many  orders?"  he  inquired  dryly. 

"I  have  not  taken  any  yet,"  I  replied.  "I  have 
just  started  in." 

9 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

"Have  you  ever  done  this  work  before?"  The 
question  was  accompanied  by  a  scrutinizing  look. 

"No,"  I  said,  with  a  slight  tremor  in  my  voice. 

"And  you  are  trying  to  make  your  living  this 
way?" 

I  answered  in  the  affirmative,  my  eyes  filling  with 
tears. 

"Then  I  will  subscribe  to  the  work  to  help  you 
along,"  he  said  kindly. 

I  could  hardly  hide  the  triumph  I  felt,  as  I 
thought  how  those  men,  who  intended  only  to  dis 
concert  and  annoy  me  for  their  amusement,  would 
feel  at  the  outcome  of  the  joke.  Mr.  Clemens,  who 
had  left  me  rather  abruptly,  soon  returned,  with  a 
check  and  a  letter. 

"I  have  selected  the  best  binding,"  he  observed 
smilingly,  "and  I  wish  you  personally  to  take  a  set 
of  these  books,  not  later  than  to-morrow,  to  the 
gentleman  who  sent  you  here.  You  may  read  this 
note,  which  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  give  him." 
Wishing  me  success,  he  bowed  me  out. 

On  leaving  the  house,  I  opened  the  letter  and 
read  : 


10 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

"Mv  DEAR  ARTHUR  : 

"You  know  it  has  been  my  custom  for  the  past 
twenty  years  to  make  you  a  substantial  birthday 
present.  I  intended  buying  you  an  automobile  this 
A.  M.,  but  knowing  that,  like  myself,  you  look  upon 
Mark  Twain  as  the  greatest  of  living  authors,  I 
have  subscribed  to  the  set  of  books  you  so  kindly 
brought  to  my  notice. 

"I  am  aware  that  you  already  have  six  or  seven 
different  editions,  but  feel  sure  you  will  be  delighted 
to  receive  this  one. 

Yours  faithfully,    etc. 


July  nth. 

This  has  been  a  red  letter  day  for  me.  I  have 
taken  seven  orders.  Went  to  the  office  of  the 
Grand  Central  Railroad  at  the  suggestion  of  the 
manager.  I  had  shown  my  book  to  so  many  per 
sons  without  taking  an  order,  that  I  was  beginning 
to  feel  like  giving  up,  when  I  came  across  a  nice 
old  man,  who  said  I  was  just  calculated  to  sell 
books,  as  I  had  such  a  sweet  voice,  and  pleasant 
manner  of  approaching  people.  He  was  so  inter 
ested  in  me  that  he  asked  if  I  had  a  mother  or 
father  living,  if  I  lived  alone,  or  with  friends.  After 
informing  me  that  he  had  no  children,  but  always 

n 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

took  a  fatherly  interest  in  young  people ;  he  piloted 
me  to  another  office  where  there  were  several  young 
men. 

"Come,  boys,"  he  said  to  a  group  that  was  near 
the  door,  here  is  a  deserving  young  lady  selling  a 
fine  book;  I  want  you  all  to  subscribe.  I  will  when 
she  gets  through  with  you." 

I  opened  my  sample  copy,  and  they  all  crowded 
around  me  and  listened  to  what  I  said  with  consid 
erable  interest. 

After  a  while  one  said :  "If  you  subscribe,  John, 
I  will." 

"What  do  you  say,  Kid  ?"  John  asked  his  neigh 
bor. 

"Suppose  we  all  subscribe,"  another  suggested.  A 
short  consultation  followed,  then  John  said,  "It's 
a  go." 

With  eager,  trembling  fingers,  I  produced  my  or 
der  book,  and  each  young  man  attached  his  signa 
ture.  My  heart  was  bubbling  over  with  joy  as  I 
thanked  them,  and  started  for  the  office  of  the  nice 
old  gentleman.  When  I  entered  the  room  he  was 
busy  writing,  but  he  looked  up  and  greeted  me  with 
a  benevolent  smile. 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

"Done  any  business?"  he  inquired  kindly. 

"Oh,  yes;  I  took  seven  orders,"  I  answered 
proudly. 

"Good !  And  now,  little  girl,  can't  I  come  up  to 
see  you  this  evening,  and  take  you  for  a  turn  on  a 
roof  garden,  or  to  the  theatre?  It  must  be  very 
dull  for  you  all  alone." 

I  told  him  I  did  not  care  to  go  out  with 
strangers,  and  reminded  him  of  his  promise  to  sub 
scribe. 

"You  must  let  me  off  this  time,"  he  answered 
suavely;  "but  come  again,  I  will  always  be  glad  to 
see  you." 


July  1 2th. 

Yesterday  I  felt  elated  because  I  took  seven  or 
ders;  to-day  I  am  irritable  and  nervous,  for  I  have 
worked  all  day  without  results,  and  all  because  a 
man  who  wanted  me  to  take  an  agency  for  a  music 
box  insisted  upon  my  going  up  to  Carnegie  Hall  to 
see  some  one  who  had  to  do  with  it.  He  said  thou 
sands  upon  thousands  were  being  sold  all  over  the 
country,  and  that  there  was  so  much  more  demand 
for  music  boxes  than  for  books. 

13 


THE  DIARY  OF  A   BOOK  AGENT 

Well,  I  went  up,  and  his  partner  gave  me  a  small 
music  box  for  a  sample,  together  with  some  circu 
lars,  and  suggested  as  there  were  a  good  many  musi 
cal  people  in  Carnegie  Hall  I  might  as  well  begin 
there. 

The  first  person  I  called  on  was  a  piano  teacher, 
who  settled  my  dream  of  success  with  the  music 
box  by  telling  me  that  it  was  a  wretched  thing,  en 
tirely  off  key,  and  kept  poor  time;  in  short,  that  it 
was  a  villainous  affair,  and  that  if  introduced  into 
the  homes  of  musically  inclined  people  would  do  no 
end  of  harm. 

She,  however,  proposed  that  I  canvass  for  an 
instrument  invented  by  her,  an  automatic  time 
keeper.  She  said  there  was  a  great  call  for  them, 
and  was  so  urgent  that  I  decided  to  try  the  time 
keeper,  and  take  back  the  music  box ;  but  as  the  office 
door  was  locked,  and  a  notice,  "Will  not  be  back  till 
six,"  tacked  on  it,  I  had  to  carry  it  for  the  balance 
of  the  day. 

They  were  very  kind,  the  people  that  live  in  Car 
negie  Hall.  Some  were  literati,  some  were  artists, 
some  were  musicians.  They  bought  neither  books, 

14 


THE  DIARY  OF   A  BOOK   AGENT 

timekeepers,  nor  music  boxes,  but  if  I  left  the  Hall 
hungry  it  was  my  fault. 

A  dear  little  creature  in  a  bewitching  costume  of 
lace  and  ribbon  insisted  on  my  having  a  cup  of  clam 
broth.  Now,  if  there  is  anything  in  the  world  I  dis 
like,  it  is  clams!  From  my  childhood  up  I  have 
hated  them  in  every  form,  but  how  could  I  let  my 
dislike  for  clams  interfere  with  my  prospects  of  get 
ting  an  order  ? 

So  with  a  grateful  look  I  took  the  cup  from  her 
dainty  hand  and  by  a  supreme  effort — of  which  I 
felt  justly  proud — I  drank  every  drop. 

She  looked  on  with  a  benign  countenance  while  I 
swallowed  the  horrible  dose,  then  sweetly  informed 
me  that  she  did  not  care  to  subscribe  to  either  of 
the  books. 

I  was  feeling  very  much  like  a  martyr  when  I 
rapped  on  the  adjoining  door.  This  studio  proved 
to  be  occupied  by  two  maiden  sisters,  who  taught 
elocution.  The  one  who  admitted  me  took  my  sam 
ple  book,  and  said  she  would  consult  her  sister.  Soon 
she  returned.  In  her  hand  there  was  a  cup,  a  feel 
ing  of  dread  seized  me — still,  I  hoped  it  might  be 
tea. 

IS 


THE  DIARY  OF   A  BOOK   AGENT 

"Would  you  like  a  cup  of  broth?"  she  asked. 

I  glanced  up  quite  cold  with  apprehension. 

"Clam,"  she  replied  in  answer  to  my  look.  "Sis 
ter  and  I  always  take  clam  broth,  it  is  so  strengthen- 
ing." 

Again  the  fear  of  refusing  crept  over  me,  so  I 
took  the  cup,  thanked  her,  and  braced  myself  for 
the  ordeal.  As  I  placed  it  to  my  lips  she  rose,  say 
ing  she  would  go  and  see  what  her  sister  had  to  say. 

I  saw  my  opportunity  and  grasped  it.  Quickly 
emptying  the  contents  of  the  cup  over  the  root  of 
the  rubber  plant  on  the  stand  beside  me,  and  pray 
ing  to  be  forgiven  if  it  died,  I  prepared  to  greet  her. 
The  steam  was  still  coming  up  from  the  earth  when 
she  returned,  but  I  managed  to  divert  her  attention 
by  a  few  remarks  on  the  superior  flavor  of  her  clam 
broth. 

"Sister  says  we  won't  subscribe  this  time;  but 
shan't  I  bring  you  another  cup?"  glancing  at  the 
empty  vessel  in  my  hand.  I  need  not  record  my  an 
swer. 

My  next  call  was  on  a  Jap,  who  wanted  me  to 
teach  him  how  to  speak  English.  He  said  he  would 

16 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

pay  me  more  than  I  could  make  selling  books  or 
music  boxes.     I  declined  the  proposition. 

Then  I  rang  the  bell  of  an  artist's  studio.  She 
looked  over  my  prospectus,  did  not  care  to  subscribe, 
but  thought  I  ought  to  do  well.  It  was  the  first 
word  of  encouragement  that  I  had  received  and  I 
thanked  her  for  it. 

"You  look  tired  and  not  very  strong/'  she  ob 
served  kindly,  "perhaps  a  cup  of "  Dreading 

what  was  coming  I  quickly  said,  "Thank  you,  I  have 
had  two  cups  of  clam  broth  already." 

"Very  nourishing!  It  was  just  what  I  was  going 
to  offer  you." 

Does  every  one  in  Carnegie  Hall  drink  clam 
broth?    I  wondered  as  I  left  the  building. 


July,  1 3th. 

Did  not  take  any  orders  to-day.  Discouraging. 
Still,  the  manager  says  I  am  gaining  experience,  and 
that  means  money  to  a  book  agent.  Came  across  a 
woman  who  wants  me  to  canvass  from  house  to 
house  for  a  combination  clothes  rack  and  drying 


THE  DIARY  OF   A  BOOK   AGENT 

machine.  She  said  that  she  had  agents  working  for 
her  and  making  $5.00  a  day,  who  could  not  make 
$1.00  per  week  selling  books.  I  took  her  sample 
and  may  try  it. 

I  also  met  a  man  who  told  me  he  had  fifty  agents 
out  selling  a  combination  water  filter  and  gas-saving 
attachment,  each  of  them  earning  over  $10.00  per 
day.  He  said  "Book  agents  are  born,  not  made." 
Perhaps  this  is  true.  He,  too,  gave  me  a  sample.  I 
receive  several  offers  like  these  every  day,  and  al 
though  it  takes  up  a  lot  of  time  to  listen  to  the  dif 
ferent  propositions,  some  good  may  come  out  of  it. 


July  1 4th. 

I  spent  the  afternoon  among  the  bankers  and 
brokers  on  Wall  Street,  and  a  more  disappointed 
female  than  I  was  could  hardly  have  been  found 
within  the  precinct  of  watered  stocks  and  "frenzied 
finance." 

I  had  so  often  read  of  chorus  girls  and  popular 
actresses  invading  this  district  in  the  cause  of 
charity  and  how  they  left  with  pocketbooks  filled 
to  their  utmost  capacity,  that  I  actually  expected  a 

18 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

fair  share  of  success,  but  alas!  I  was  not  a  hand 
somely  gowned  chorus  girl,  only  a  shabby  little  book 
agent.  So  the  bears  snarled,  and  growled,  and  the 
bulls  kicked,  and  balked  at  my  timid  appeals  to  their 
intellect  and  liberality.  True,  I  had  several  invita 
tions  to  luncheon,  and  a  young  broker  thoughtfully 
suggested  that  an  automobile  ride  by  moonlight 
might  prove  a  pleasant  diversion  from  the  arduous 
task  of  canvassing — but  books,  I  sold  none. 

Then  I  came  across  so  many  small  boys  swelling 
with  pride,  who,  for  petty  salaries,  are  put  at  the 
doors  or  windows  to  keep  undesirable  persons  from 
the  presence  of  their  august  masters.   One  little  fel 
low,  about  fifteen,  to  whom  I  had  to  tell  my  errand, 
drew  up  his  attenuated  frame  as  if  to  impress  me 
with  the  importance  of  his  position,  and  said: 
"We  do  not  care  to  look  at  any  books." 
"We  would  not  purchase  if  we  did  look." 
"Who  are  'we'  my  boy  ?"  I  asked  austerely ;  he  wilt 
ed — so  I  piled  it  on.    "Don't  you  know  that  a  great 
statesman  once  said:  'The  only  persons  qualified  to 
use  the  first  person  plural  are  editors  and  men  with 
tapeworms,'  "  and  having  rid  myself  of  some  of  the 
spleen  which  I  could  not  vent  on  the  older  cads  with 

19 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

whom  I  had  come  in  contact,  I  turned  haughtily 
away. 

At  the  next  window  a  short,  undersized  young 
man,  who  was  busily  engaged  twirling  a  diminutive 
mustache,  threw  me  a  contemptuous  glance  (which 
I  pretended  not  to  notice),  and  curtly  demanded 
what  I  wanted. 

I  looked  out  the  corner  of  my  eye  at  the  names 

on  the  door,  then  smilingly  asked,  "Is  Mr.  J 

in?" 

After  regarding  me  suspiciously  he  said,  "No." 

"Well,  is  Mr.  B in?    He  will  do  as  well,"  I 

said,  assuming  a  business-like  air. 

His  glance  had  followed  mine,  and  he  let  me 
know  it. 

"Now  see  here,"  he  said,  with  a  degree  of  fa 
miliarity  that  was  very  irritating,  "I  will  save  you 
the  trouble  of  reading  any  more  names  off  the  door 
by  telling  you  that  I  am  put  here  to  say  'No.' ' 

My  eyes  flashed  resentment,  but  my  voice  distilled 
honey.  "Then  yours  is  a  negative  position?"  I 
queried  sweetly. 

"Just  so,"  he  snapped,  and  down  went  the  win 
dow  with  a  slam. 

20 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

I  was  fairly  boiling  with  rage  at  his  discourtesy, 
so  I  tapped  on  the  pane  of  glass. 

"Don't  you  think  you  would  grow  a  little  taller 
if  you  were  not  so  weighted  down  with  the  idea 
of  your  great  importance?"  I  asked  with  assumed 
solicitude. 

Then  I  beat  a  hasty  retreat,  as  I  saw  him  press 
a  button,  which  I  knew,  by  my  experience  of  a  few 
minutes  before,  was  to  summon  the  elevator  man 
to  put  me  out,  for  they  did  not  allow  canvassing  in 
that  building. 

I  am  very  sorry  that  I  did  not  stop  working  a  lit 
tle  earlier,  for  I  arrived  at  the  office  just  ten  min 
utes  after  the  manager  left.  And  now  I  will  have 
to  wait  until  Monday  for  my  salary.  Oh,  dear ! 


July  1 6th. 

This  has  been  a  dreadful  day  for  me — full  of  dis 
appointments  and  annoyances.  I  have  cried  until 
my  head  aches  and  my  eyes  burn :  First  I  went  to 
the  office  to  get  my  salary,  and  that  horrible  man 
who  engaged  me  at  $35.00  a  week  looked  me  coolly 
in  the  face  and  asked  if  I  expected  him  to  pay  me 

21 


THE  DIARY  OF  A   BOOK  AGENT 

for  nothing.  It  was  true  that  I  had  not  taken  any 
orders.  Nevertheless  I  had  worked  all  the  week,  and 
I  told  him  so,  but  he  said  it  was  orders  that  counted, 
not  work.  I  argued  and  remonstrated  in  vain.  He 
was  firm.  Why,  he  even  refused  to  give  me  back 
the  three  dollars  for  the  prospectus  as  he  agreed  to 
do.  I  was  mortified  and  ready  to  cry,  so  I  threw 
the  prospectus  on  his  desk  and  left  the  office. 

Then  I  walked  briskly  over  to  the  other  publish 
ers,  expecting  to  draw  my  commission  on  eight  or 
ders,  but  again  I  met  with  disappointment,  for  the 
manager  said  all  that  was  due  me  was  the  $7.50 
from  Mr.  Clemens'  order,  as  all  the  young  men  at 
the  Grand  Central  office,  who  signed  the  contracts, 
had  declined  to  take  the  books.  Of  course  he  would 
not  pay  for  these.  So  after  a  hard  week's  work  I 
find  myself  worse  off  than  ever. 

I  wish  I  had  taken  the  advice  of  the  manager 
whose  firm  publishes  small,  inexpensive  books.  He 
said,  "One  bird  in  the  hand  is  worth  two  in  the 
bush,"  and  that  if  I  took  twenty  or  thirty  of  his  lit 
tle  books  in  a  satchel,  I  could  sell  them  as  I  went 
along  and  be  sure  of  my  money. 

Well,  perhaps  I  will  try  it  to-morrow. 
22 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

July  1 7th. 

This  morning  I  bought  a  satchel  for  $2.25  and 
invested  $4.00  in  the  books  suggested  by  Mr.  Smart, 
of  the  Elite  Publishing  Company.  Perhaps  it  might 
have  been  wiser  to  have  taken  the  agency  offered 
me  by  the  Insect  Powder  and  Corn  Salve  man,  for, 
as  he  said,  "There  are  more  insects  than  book  lovers, 
and  more  corns  and  bunions  than  book  buyers."  But 
I  can't  help  feeling  that  a  book  agent  is  a  grade 
higher  and,  unfortunately,  I  still  have  a  little  pride. 

Mr.  Smart  advised  me  to  select  the  following 
books,  "Gleams  of  Hope  and  Tidings  of  Woe," 
"The  Success  of  a  Self-Made  Man,"  and  "How  I 
Won  a  Fortune  at  Monte  Carlo."  Now  that  I  have 
packed  my  satchel,  it  seems  a  little  heavy,  but  every 
book  I  sell  will  lighten  it,  and  to-morrow  I  shall  be 
ready  for  the  fray. 


July  1 8th. 

My  arms  are  quite  lame  from  carrying  that  heavy 
satchel.  Have  not  done  so  badly  for  the  first, 
though.  Went  among  the  butter  and  cheese  men. 
That  is  not  a  very  polite  way  to  designate  men  who 
were  kind  to  me.  I  myself  might  not  object  to 

23 


THE  DIARY  OF  A   BOOK   AGENT 

being  called  a  butter  man,  for  there  is  something 
soft  and  soothing  in  the  suggestion,  but  disagree 
able  odors  are  too  strongly  associated  with  cheese 
to  make  the  appellation  pleasant. 

In  one  place  I  spent  about  half  an  hour  vainly 
trying  to  persuade  a  rather  amiable  but  stubborn 
young  man  to  buy  a  book.  He  was  not  rude  or 
impolite,  he  simply  knew  his  own  mind,  and  had  it 
made  up  the  way  I  did  not  wish  him  to,  and  no 
amount  of  persuasion  on  my  part  could  induce  him 
to  change  it.  He  unblushingly  declared  he  had 
never  read  a  book  in  his  life,  indeed,  seemed  quite 
proud  of  the  fact,  and  only  laughed  good-naturedly 
when  I  suggested  that  he  buy  "Mother  Goose's 
Melodies"  and  begin  with  them. 

Finding  I  could  not  rouse  his  interest,  I  casually 
inquired  if  there  were  another  place  of  business  up 
stairs.  He  advised  me  to  save  myself  the  trouble 
of  going  up,  volunteering  the  information  that  the 
man  who  occupied  the  office  was  a  Jew,  and  that  I 
would  only  be  wasting  valuable  time  canvassing 
him.  "You  did  not  think  my  time  very  valuable 
when  I  was  spending  it  with  you,  so  I  will  try  him. 
I  can't  do  worse,"  I  replied  smilingly. 

24 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK   AGENT 

"Well,  I  will  bet  you  half  a  dollar  that  fellow 
don't  buy  a  book,  or,  better  still,"  he  said,  with  an 
air  of  assurance,  "you  go  up,  and  if  you  sell  him 
one,  come  right  back  to  me  and  I  will  buy  two. 
That's  a  go." 

Telling  him  that  I  looked  on  his  proposition  in 
the  light  of  a  legitimate  business  transaction,  I 
mounted  the  stairs.  On  entering  the  office  a  very 
refined-looking  man  rose  to  meet  me.  I  placed  the 
books  in  his  extended  hand,  briefly  stating  that  I 
was  selling  them.  He  glanced  at  the  titles,  selected 
one,  and  handing  me  a  dollar  bill,  told  me  to  keep 
the  change. 

I  was  in  such  a  hurry  to  flaunt  my  triumph  in 
the  face  of  the  young  man  downstairs  that  I  don't 
think  I  showed  proper  appreciation  of  the  kind  act, 
but  started  on  my  downward  course  at  a  rapid  rate, 
and  walking  into  the  office,  flourishing  my  brand- 
new  dollar  bill,  I  told  him  to  select  one  of  the  books. 

He  was  leaning  back  in  a  chair  with  his  legs 
stretched  out  full  length,  and  his  hands  in  his  pock 
ets,  jingling  some  coins.  Now,  I  have  noticed  that 
the  man  who  always  has  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
fingering  his  money  loves  it  too  well  to  part  with  it 

25 


THE  DIARY  OF  A   BOOK  AGENT 

readily.  Seeing  that  he  did  not  make  a  move  I 
advanced,  saying : 

"Well,  aren't  you  going  to  keep  your  word  and 
take  a  book?" 

"What  book?"  he  asked,  pretending  not  to  under 
stand. 

"Surely  you  have  not  forgotten  the  compact  you 
made  with  me  not  ten  minutes  ago,"  I  answered, 
somewhat  surprised  at  his  lapse  of  memory. 

"What  are  you  doing?  Trying  to  make  me  be 
lieve  that  fellow  bought  one?" 

"I  am  not  trying  anything,"  I  replied,  "simply 
stating  the  fact.  He  not  only  bought  one,  but  gave 
me  double  the  price !" 

"Then  that  lets  me  out !  Just  count  that  he  paid 
for  mine,"  and  he  turned  aside  with  a  laugh. 

I  threw  him  a  glance  more  eloquent  than  words, 
and  walked  away  in  silence. 


July 

Canvassed  a  lot  of  patent  medicine  men  and  failed 
to  sell  a  book  to  any  of  them.  Had  the  offer  of 
two  agencies,  one  for  a  porous  plaster  and  the  other 

26 


THE  DIARY  OF   A   BOOK   AGENT 

for  a  cough  syrup.  I  was  told  there  was  money  in 
it,  and  judging  from  the  staff  of  clerks  and  the  well- 
appointed  offices,  I  did  not  doubt  it,  but  I  could  not 
help  thinking  that  the  hard-earned  dollars  of  the 
sick  and  poor  paid  for  it  all. 

Money  in  it !  I  know  there  is,  for  a  great  number 
of  persons  acquire  the  patent-medicine  habit  just  as 
others  do  the  absinthe,  cocaine,  opium  and  other 
vicious  habits,  and  in  many  instances  the  effects  are 
just  as  bad. 

Of  course  there  are  exceptions  to  every  rule,  and 
even  the  patent  medicine  has  its  exceptions,  and  the 
fact  that  some  of  these  venerable  compounds  were 
used  by  our  great-grandmothers  proves  their  harm- 
lessness  if  not  their  efficacy. 

Now  I  don't  mean  to  decry  what  I  was  taught  by 
my  elders  to  respect — I  refer  to  the  new-fangled 
nostrums,  the  anti-fats,  and  the  anti-leans,  the  ba 
cilli  exterminators,  the  lacto-this  and  the  lacto-that. 
On  these  I  have  determined  to  wage  a  war  of  ex 
termination  by  writing  them  down  in  this  diary  as 
humbugs  and  dangerous  compounds.  I  really  don't 
know  what  they  are  made  of,  but  what  matters? 
When  one  is  thirsting  for  revenge  one  does  not  stop 

27 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

to  analyze  things,  and  I  certainly  am  justified  in 
fostering  this  feeling,  for  I  was  treated  very  badly 
at  some  of  the  offices  where  I  called  to-day. 

In  one  place  they  did  not  even  permit  me  to  cross 
the  threshold.  I  was  spoken  to  through  a  small 
aperture  in  a  bolted  door,  and  then  unceremoniously 
turned  away.  It  looked  to  me  as  if  they  were  afraid 
I  had  some  contagious  disease.  Now,  if  they 
thought  this  was  the  case,  they  could  easily  have 
rendered  me  non-infectious  by  spraying  me  with 
some  of  their  deodorized  disinfectant,  and  giving 
me  a  few  doses  of  the  bacilli  exterminator.  I  would 
willingly  have  submitted  to  this  treatment  for  the 
sake  of  selling  a  half  dozen  books,  but  they  did  not 
propose  it,  and  I  would  have  returned  home  with 
an  empty  purse,  but  for  a  tea  merchant,  who  kindly 
bought  five  copies  and  presented  them  to  his  clerks. 


July  20th. 

I  don't  suppose  that  all  the  well-to-do  men  whom 
I  saw  to-day  meant  to  be  unkind,  but  one  after  the 
other  just  said  "No."  Some  of  them  did  not  even 

28 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

take  the  trouble  to  look  up.  At  one  time  I  was  so 
discouraged  that  I  sat  on  the  stairs  in  a  hallway 
and  actually  cried. 

But  at  last  I  came  across  that  rara  avis,  an  un 
selfish  old  bachelor,  who  bought  four  books.  He 
also  gave  me  a  list  with  the  names  of  several 
friends  and  advised  me  to  call  on  them.  I  think  he 
noticed  that  I  was  very  tired  and  listless,  for  he 
bade  me  remember  that  push  was  an  adjunct  to  suc 
cess. 

Now  I  knew  that  I  hadn't  very  much  of  that  com 
modity  in  my  composition,  but  I  thanked  him  and 
said  that  I  would  bear  it  in  mind.  And  I  did,  for 
with  more  assurance  than  usual,  I  opened  the  door 
of  the  office  that  faced  his  and  stepped  in  bravely. 

A  man  who  was  lounging  in  a  large  easy  chair 
raised  his  head  and  looked  at  me  out  of  half-closed 
lids,  then  drew  himself  up  to  a  sitting  position. 

"What's — what's  the  trouble  now?"  he  asked, 
blinking  and  smiling  inanely. 

His  voice  was  very  thick  and  his  eyes  were  red, 
and  7  saw  what  the  trouble  was. 

"I  am  trying  to  sell  some  small,  inexpensive 
29 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK   AGENT 

books,"  I  replied  hesitatingly.  Then  I  started  to 
follow  my  courage  which  had  already  fled,  but  he 
caught  hold  of  my  dress. 

"How  am  I  to  know  if  I  want  any  of  your  books 
if  you  don't  show  them  to  me !"  he  said,  drawing  me 
toward  him. 

I  did  not  reply.  I  was  too  busy  trying  to  squirm 
out  of  his  arms. 

"Don't  try  to  run  away,  little  girl,  I  won't  eat 
you,"  he  said,  and  pulling  me  down  on  his  knee 
he  began  jogging  me  up  and  down  to  the  tune  of 
"Ride  a  cock-horse  to  Banbury  Cross." 

To  say  I  was  making  an  effort  to  get  up  is  putting 
it  mildly.  Suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  a  woman 
appeared.  For  an  instant  she  stood  on  the  thresh 
old  surveying  the  scene  with  blazing  eyes;  indeed, 
she  looked  for  all  the  world  as  if  she  were  about  to 
devour  me,  then  she  dashed  over  to  where  the  man 
sat  in  stupid  confusion. 

"So  this  is  the  use  you  make  of  your  office,  is  it?" 
she  asked  with  withering  contempt. 

I  had  risen  and  was  standing  beside  him. 

"Madam,"  I  said,  "permit  me  to  explain " 

"You  will  explain  nothing,  you  bold,  audacious 

3Q 


THE  DIARY  OF  A   BOOK   AGENT 

creature !"  and  taking  me  by  the  arm  she  pushed  me 
out  of  the  office  and  closed  the  door.  I  opened  it 
again,  for  I  was  furious. 

"You  must  hear  what  I  have  to  say,"  I  cried  in 
dignantly.  I  got  no  further,  for  she  simply  would 
not  listen. 

"If  you  remain  a  moment  longer  I  will  have  you 
ejected  from  the  building,  so  you  had  better  go,"  she 
said,  pointing  to  the  elevator. 

I  was  thoroughly  humiliated,  outraged,  but  was 
powerless  to  resent  the  insult.  Work  was  simply 
impossible,  so  I  came  home. 


July  2 1  st. 

I  have  done  so  poorly,  scarcely  making  expenses, 
that  Mr.  Smart  thought  I  had  better  try  some  sub 
urban  town  and  work  among  the  women.  Bayonne 
suggested  itself  to  me,  so  I  crossed  the  ferry  and 
took  the  trolley  to  save  expenses.  I  sold  six  books, 
but  had  to  work  very  hard  to  do  it;  might  have 
done  better  but  for  the  free  libraries.  A  book  agent 
whom  I  met  in  a  restaurant  where  I  took  lunch 
said :  "Carnegie  ought  to  be  made  to  support  all  f e- 

31 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

male  book  agents,  as  his  libraries  have  killed  the 
book  business." 

I  don't  know  anything  about  that,  but  I  do  know 
I  am  getting  dreadfully  nervous,  and  it  is  no  won 
der,  for  I  have  to  come  in  contact  with  so  many 
horrid  people. 

One  woman  was  so  enraged  because  I  rang  the 
front  door  bell  instead  of  going  around  to  the  back 
that  she  threw  a  tin  cuspidor  at  me,  which  I  barely 
escaped  by  ducking. 

An  old  man,  who  keeps  a  shoemaker's  shop  next 
door,  to  whom  I  told  my  adventure,  said  I  was  in  a 
very  common  neighborhood,  and  bluntly  added:  "If 
you  can't  tackle  the  biggis'  bug  in  the  city  you  ain't 
fit  for  the  business ;  better  git  out  of  it." 

Well,  I  followed  his  advice,  and  went  in  the  di 
rection  he  suggested,  but  I  didn't  fare  much  better. 
True,  a  woman  on  whom  I  called  received  me 
kindly  and  bought  a  copy  of  "Gleams  of  Hope  and 
Tidings  of  Woe,"  but  she  was  the  exception,  for 
she  invited  me  into  her  parlor  and  entertained  me 
pleasantly.  In  the  course  of  conversation  she  told 
me  how  very  expensive  her  chairs  were,  that  the 
satin  with  which  they  were  upholstered  cost  $18.00 

3.2 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

per  yard,  that  she  was  exceedingly  choice  of  them, 
and  hated  to  have  people  sit  on  them,  especially  fat 
people.  She  also  informed  me  that  her  ancestors 
were  regular  "English  Angular- Saxons,"  but  that 
she  was  born  and  brought  up  in  Missouri.  How 
ever,  she  was  very  kind,  and  I  appreciated  it. 

Her  next-door  neighbor,  a  large  coarse-looking 
woman,  was  a  decided  contrast.  I  was  talking  to 
her  daughter  at  the  door  when  she  made  her  ap 
pearance. 

"Just  tell  that  woman  we  don't  need  no  books," 
she  shouted,  and  dragging  the  girl  in  the  hallway 
she  slammed  the  door  in  my  face. 

I  was  white  with  rage,  but  collecting  myself,  I 
rang  the  bell  again.  Her  daughter  answered  it. 

"You  will  pardon  me,  my  dear,"  I  said  loud 
enough  for  her  mother,  who  stood  in  the  back 
ground,  to  hear.  "Will  you  kindly  tell  that  person 
there  is  a  book  which  she  sadly  needs.  It  is  one  on 
etiquette  and  good  manners,"  and  without  waiting 
for  the  consequences  I  ran  down  the  steps. 

Met  the  unselfish  old  bachelor  as  I  was  crossing 
the  City  Hall  Park.  He  recognized  me  and  stopped 
to  inquire  how  I  was  getting  on.  Very  kind  of 

33 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

him,  but  I  didn't  feel  a  bit  grateful  for  his  interest. 
One  doesn't  usually  like  to  admit  that  one  is  a 
failure. 

Dear  me!  how  I  dread  the  unpleasant  possibili 
ties  of  to-morrow.  Just  now  I  am  so  discouraged 
that  I  feel  like  giving  up  the  book  business,  for  I 
have  barely  made  my  bread  at  it,  and  I  do  love  but 
ter  and  trimmings!  Besides,  my  snoes  are  giving 
out.  I  really  believe  the  water  filter  man  was  right 
when  he  said:  "Book  agents  are  born,  not  made." 

Indeed,  I  don't  think  I  was  cut  out  to  be  an  agent 
of  any  sort,  and  to-morrow,  if  I  am  in  the  same 
frame  of  mind,  I  shall  get  rid  of  this  accumulation 
of  money-making  samples.  It  wouldn't  be  a  bad 
idea  to  send  them  to  one  of  the  bureaus  where  they 
distribute  useful  articles  to  the  deserving  poor.  The 
following  is  a  list : 

i  Music  Box. 

I  Musical  Timekeeper. 

I  Improved  Clothes  Rack. 

i  Combination  Water  Filter  and  Gas-Saving  At 
tachment. 

i  Adjustable  Baby  Chair  and  Cradle. 

i  Automatic  Feather  Duster. 

i  Combination  Lawn  Mower  and  Carpet 
Sweeper. 

34 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

I  Reversible  Egg  Beater  and  Apple  Corer. 

i  Bottle  Embalming  Fluid. 

i  Box  of  Predigested  Codfish. 

i  Box  of  Antiseptic  Corn  Salve. 

i  Package  of  Invisible  Insect  Powder. 

The  remaining  copies  of  the  "Self-Made  Man" 
and  "How  I  Won  a  Fortune  at  Monte  Carlo"  I  will 
probably  send  to  a  male  orphan  asylum. 


July  23d. 

This  morning  when  I  called  on  Mr.  Smart  of  the 
"Elite  Publishing  Company,"  to  tell  him  that  I  had 
concluded  to  give  up  the  agency  for  his  books,  he 
would  not  hear  of  it,  declaring  that  I  had  not  given 
it  a  fair  trial,  and  was  too  easily  discouraged.  He 
made  so  many  suggestions,  finally  offering  to  ad 
vance  me  sufficient  money  to  defray  my  expenses 
for  two  weeks,  that  I  decided  to  continue  with  him. 

Perhaps  I  was  influenced  in  this  decision  by  a 
woman  who  occupies  the  room  that  adjoins  mine. 
She  is  an  agent  for  toilet  articles,  and  has  promised 
to  give  me  some  instruction  on  canvassing. 

As  a  rule,  I  don't  like  to  be  on  intimate  terms 
35 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

with  the  inmates  of  houses  in  which  I  rent  fur 
nished  rooms.  They  may  be  very  good  people  (the 
women  kind),  but  they  are  generally  made  up  of 
two  classes — one  which  ought  to  be  left  alone,  and 
the  other  that  want  to  be  left  alone. 

After  the  occupant  is  gone  the  vacant  room  usu 
ally  tells  its  own  story,  either  by  an  array  of  empty 
bromo  seltzer  and  whisky  bottles,  or  the  refuse  of 
stale  bread  and  other  edibles,  evidence  of  the  scanty, 
hurriedly  gotten  meals,  cooked  and  eaten  in  stealth, 
with  the  dreaded  knock  of  the  landlady  an  ever- 
present  menace  to  their  enjoyment  and  digestion. 

However,  my  new  acquaintance,  I  fancy,  is  an 
exception.  She  informed  me  she  had  twenty  years' 
experience  as  an  agent,  has  traveled  all  over  the 
States,  and  sold  all  sorts  of  goods.  To-morrow  I 
am  to  take  my  first  lesson  on  how  to  become  a  suc 
cessful  agent. 


July  24tH. 

Well,  my  neighbor  called  to  see  me,  and  after 
looking  over  my  stock  of  books,  bluntly  said  she  did 
not  think  I  could  make  a  living  selling  such  cheap 
stuff. 


THE  DIARY  O   A  BOOK  AGENT 

I  told  her  of  my  non-success  with  Mark  Twain's 
works,  which  I  attributed  to  my  inability  to  sell  ex 
pensive  books. 

"Your  failure,"  she  observed,  depositing  her  am 
ple  but  compact  person  between  the  arms  of  the 
Morris  chair,  "was  due  to  lack  of  experience  and  as 
surance. 

"I  too,  was  a  failure  when  I  first  started  out," 
she  went  on  to  say  encouragingly.  "I  had  no  expe 
rience,  was  also  handicapped  by  a  diffident  shrinking 
nature,  and  never  succeeded  until  I  discovered  that 
timidity  and  modesty  were  very  nice  adjuncts  to 
drawing-room  manners,  but  a  great  drawback  to 
the  woman  who  had  to  make  her  living  in  the  busi 
ness  arena.  Twenty  years  of  knocking  about  the 
world  has  made  a  very  different  person  of  me." 

To  my  query  if  she  thought  I  would  do  better 
canvassing  women,  she  shook  her  head  thoughtfully 
and  said: 

"No;  I  don't  think  you  would  do  as  well.  Man 
is  woman's  best  friend,  and  judging  from  my  expe 
rience,  I  would  not  advise  it.  I  have  received  some 
pretty  rough  treatment  from  the  hands  of  the 
gentle,  sex.  You  will  hardly  credit  it,  but  I  assure 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK   AGENT 

you  they  have  set  dogs  on  me,  shut  the  doors  in  my 
face  when  the  rain  was  pouring  down,  played  the 
hose  on  me,  and  I  don't  know  what  else. 

"To  say  nothing,"  she  continued  in  a  satirical 
tone,  "of  the  time  I  wasted  among  the  so-called  bet 
ter  class,  sitting  in  parlors  waiting  until  'My  lady' 
adorned  her  person,  only  to  come  down  and  say 
'No'  or  'Call  again.'  I  believe  if  I  had  all  the 
money  I  have  paid  out  for  car  fare  every  time  I 
called  again,  only  to  hear  'My  husband  says  no,'  I 
could  put  up  at  a  swell  hotel. 

"By  all  means  stick  to  the  men  and  you  will  come 
out  all  right,"  she  advised;  "but  you  must  use  tact, 
always  use  tact  with  a  man.  Treat  him  as  you 
would  a  bucking  steer,  dodge  all  around  when  you 
wish  to  make  a  successful  attack,  and  you  will  get 
the  best  of  him.  Widows  understand  this,  that  is 
wrhy  they  make  such  good  agents — they  have  had 
the  experience." 

"Then  you  are  a  widow?"  I  ventured. 

She  replied  that  she  was  not  exactly  a  widow, 
that  some  years  ago  she  had  married  a  man  in  the 
same  line  of  business,  but 

I  knew  what  the  but  meant,  and  tried  to  turn  the 
38 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK   AGENT 

conversation  by  saying  that  it  must  have  been  very 
pleasant  for  them  to  travel  together. 

"That  is  just  what  we  did  not  do,"  was  her  quick 
reply.  "I  traveled  one  way,  he  traveled  another, 
and  soon  his  love  went  traveling  some  other  way. 
It  is  all  very  well  for  the  poet  to  say,  'Absence 
makes  the  heart  grow  fonder/  but  he  never  had  any 
experience  with  a  traveling  man's  heart." 

Then  with  a  little  nervous  laugh  she  said,  "But 
T  have  not  yet  told  you  my  name.  It  is  Mrs.  Burns 
— but  call  me  'Burns,'  or,  better  still,  'Bess' — just 
plain  'Bess'  will  do.  I  am  going  to  take  you  under 
my  wing,  so  there  must  be  no  formalities  between 
us." 

I  took  the  hand  she  held  out  to  seal  our  compact 
of  friendship,  for  there  was  something  very  attract 
ive  in  the  unconventional  manner  and  pleasant  face 
of  this  strange  woman. 

"Now,"  she  said  in  a  sharp,  business-like  way, 
"to-morrow,  when  you  start  out,  just  make  up  your 
mind  that  you  are  going  to  sell  your  books,  and  you 
will  sell  them.  Do  you  know,"  she  observed  with  a 
look  of  pride,  "that  I  have  frequently  sold  things 
to  people  who  did  not  have  the  slightest  use  for 

39 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

them?  Once  I  induced  a  respectable  old  parson  to 
subscribe  for  a  year  to  a  sporting  paper  by  suggest 
ing  that  he  could  find  material  in  it  to  make  up  a 
series  of  sermons  on  gambling  and  other  vices. 
Then,  again,  I  influenced  a  fifteen-year-old  unmar 
ried  girl  to  buy  a  baby's  rattle  by  telling  her  it 
would  come  in  useful  some  future  day.  Another 
time  I  made  a  young  man  buy  a  dog  collar,  and  then 
he  had  to  go  out  and  buy  the  dog  to  wear  the  col 
lar." 

"Oh,  there  is  no  end  to  the  possibilities  of  the 
competent  agent,"  she  remarked  thoughtfully. 
"Now  I  make  $6.00  or  $7.00  a  day  selling  toilet 
articles,"  here  she  lowered  her  voice  to  a  confidential 
whisper,  "and  they  are  the  worst  kind  of  rubbish  on 
the  market. 

"I  really  believe,"  she  continued,  with  a  hearty 
laugh,  "that  if  the  shaving  soap  were  left  long 
enough  on  a  man's  face  it  would  take  the  hair  off 
without  the  use  of  a  razor.  As  for  the  face  bleach 
— it  is  a  veritable  skin  destroyer,  while  the  hair 
tonic  is  such  harmless  stuff  that  it  could  be  rubbed 
all  over  a  lady's  face  for  a  decade  with  full  assur 
ance  that  it  would  never  raise  a  beard  or  mustache. 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

"Let  me  tell  you,  my  dear,  results  do  not  depend 
entirely  on  the  goods  you  are  selling.  Your  knowl 
edge  of  human  nature,  together  with  a  certain 
amount  of  confidence  in  yourself,  counts  every  time. 
To  be  successful,  an  agent  must  be  resourceful,  per 
suasive,  inventive,  should  have  a  conscience  like 
good  elastic  and  a  little  of  the  ability  that  made 
Munchausen  famous. 

"Now,  you  don't  possess  these  qualities,  so  you 
must  cultivate  tact;  you  will  find  it  a  wonderful 
weapon  with  which  to  fight  the  battle  of  life.  Here 
endeth  the  first  lesson."  And  she  wished  me  good 
night. 


July  25th. 

Started  out  this  morning  fully  determined  to  be 
tactful  and  persuasive,  but  the  result  was  a  com 
plete  failure.  After  some  consideration,  I  decided 
to  work  among  the  machinists,  thinking  I  would 
find  them  in  sympathy  with  a  woman  who  had  to 
earn  her  living,  but  I  can't  say  that  I  did.  For  they 
were  just  as  indifferent  as  their  more  aristocratic 
brothers.  Just  as  full  of  slang  and  silly  jests,  and 

41 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

just  as  suggestive  and  familiar  as  some  of  the  fash 
ionable  club  men  that  I  have  met. 

One  chucked  me  under  the  chin,  and  remarked  it 
was  a  wife,  not  a  book,  he  needed!  Another  said 
he  would  like  to  take  me  to  Coney  Island,  and  a 
third  offered  to  buy  me  out,  if  I  would  dance  a 
breakdown  for  him. 

I  was  just  about  to  leave  in  disgust  when  a  re 
spectable-looking  man  touched  me  on  the  shoulder, 
saying  at  the  same  time : 

"Lady,  don't  mind  those  men.  If  you  will  just 
step  this  way,  I  think  some  of  us  here  may  buy  a 
book  or  two  from  you." 

A  few  feet  away  I  found  a  group  of  different 
looking  men  drinking  coffee,  instead  of  beer,  out 
of  tin  cans.  After  looking  the  books  over  three 
of  them  bought  copies  of  the  "Self-made  Man." 

The  unselfish  old  bachelor  lunched  at  the  same 
restaurant  that  I  did  to-day.  I  think  he  saw  me 
going  in  and  concluded  to  try  it.  He  sent  the 
waitress  to  ask  if  I  would  like  a  plate  of  ice  cream. 
I  suppose  he  thought  I  could  not  afford  to  indulge 
in  ice  cream  at  my  own  expense.  I  refused  of 
course.  I  hate  charity  and  sympathy. 

42 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

July  26th. 

I  hardly  know  which  I  dread  the  most,  telephones 
or  typists.  This  morning  for  instance,  I  felt  so 
sure  that  I  was  going  to  sell  a  book  that  visions  of 
a  lobster  salad  floated  appetizingly  before  my  mind's 
eye,when  lo !  the  telephone  bell — and  my  young  man, 
whom  I  knew  to  be  a  weakling  from  the  pretty 
dimple  in  his  chin,  flew  to  answer  the  call — the  con 
sequence  was  a  glass  of  milk  and  shredded  wheat 
biscuits  for  lunch. 

Later  in  the  day  a  horrid  typist  prevented  me 
from  selling  two  books.  I  had  only  been  in  the 
private  office  a  few  minutes  when  she  entered,  pen 
cil  in  hand,  and  reminded  her  employer  that  it  was 
time  to  dictate  his  letters. 

What  a  showy-looking  creature  she  is,  and  how 
consequential ! 

"Why,  she  actually  glared  at  him  when  he  said, 
'I  think  I  will  take  these  two.'  Then  as  his  eyes  met 
hers,  she  smiled  sweetly,  and  offered  the  unsolicited 
information  that  books  were  a  drug  on  the  market. 

Of  course,  she  carried  her  point — he  did  not  sub 
scribe,  but  I  experienced  a  fiendish  joy  when  the 

43 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

cuff  of  my  sleeve  caught  in  her  box  of  Huyler's  and 
its  contents  strewed  the  floor. 

I  was  not  in  a  very  pleasant  mood  when  I  opened 
the  door  of  the  adjoining  office,  where  another 
typist  greeted  me  and  my  eyes  flashed  combatively 
as  with  decided  abruptness  I  said. 

"Is  Mr.  B.  in?" 

The  gentle  "No,  he  is  not,"  and  the  suggestion 
that  I  sit  and  rest  awhile  was  so  unusual  that  I  was 
quite  taken  by  surprise.  Her  voice  was  very  sweet, 
her  manner  infinitely  soothing  after  my  recent  en 
counter,  and  in  a  short  time  I  found  myself  telling 
her  some  of  my  many  troubles  and  trying  expe 
riences.  When  I  rose  to  leave  she  pressed  a  coin 
in  my  hand,  and  whispered,  "For  car  fare,"  and  as 
I  looked  into  her  kind  face  I  realized  that  there 
were  different  types  of  typists. 

Nevertheless,  I  believe  that  if  I  could  muzzle  the 
typists,  and  disconnect  the  telephones,  I  would  make 
a  success  of  the  book  business. 


July  27th. 

The  "U.O.B.,"  as  Bess  dubbed  him,  was  just  about 
to  order  his  lunch  when  we  dropped  in  at  the  res- 

44 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

taurant  this  noon.  He  sat  at  the  next  table.  I  did 
not  speak  to  him,  just  nodded.  Bess  says  he  isn't 
old — doesn't  think  he  is  more  than  forty-two. 

During  six  hours  of  steady  work  I  had  sold  only 
four  books.  I  was  very  tired,  but  hated  to  give  up. 
Why  not  try  here,  I  thought,  peering  down  on  a 
sign  projecting  from  a  basement  window,  and  down 
the  steps  I  went. 

Hundreds  of  soiled  towels,  bars  of  soap,  bottles 
of  blueing  and  washing  fluid  greeted  my  vision 
while  my  sense  of  smell  was  regaled  by  the  com 
bined  odors  of  whisky  and  tobacco  smoke.  Dis 
order  and  confusion  reigned  supreme  in  this  little 
pokey  place,  but  I  was  soon  to  learn  that  it  was 
occupied  by  a  gentleman. 

The  gentleman  was  sitting  near  the  door,  with 
his  feet  cocked  up  on  the  table,  a  pipe  in  his  mouth, 
a  derby  hat  perched  on  the  back  of  his  head,  and 
his  shirt  sleeves  rolled  up  to  the  elbows.  He  was 
writing  very  laboredly  with  a  pencil  in  a  small,  well 
thumbed,  greasy-looking  little  book. 

I  stood  for  a  second,  then  decided  not  to  enter; 
but  as  I  turned  to  leave  his  eye  caught  my  retreat 
ing  figure,  and  he  inquired  what  I  wanted.  Of 

45 


THE   DIARY  OF   A   BOOK   AGENT 

course,  I  had  to  account  for  my  presence,  so  much 
against  my  inclination,  I  stepped  into  the  room,  told 
him  I  was  selling  some  little  books,  and  asked  if  he 
would  like  to  look  at  them. 

He  rolled  his  liquid  red  orbs  on  me  slowly,  and 
shifting  the  pipe  in  an  uncertain  sort  of  way  from 
one  side  of  his  mouth  to  the  other,  blurted  out : 

"I  like  your  gall,  come  bothering  a  gentleman  in 
his  office  when  you  see  him  writing  up  his  books." 

The  gentleman,  the  office  and  the  books  struck  me 
as  being  such  a  funny  combination,  that  uncon 
sciously  I  must  have  smiled,  for  he  gave  me  an  ugly 
look,  and  pointing  with  his  stubby  pencil  to  the  exit 
toward  which  I  was  already  backing,  he  shouted : 

"See  that  door !    Just  git !" 

As  I  had  no  desire  to  linger  in  the  presence  of 
the  "Proprietor  of  the  International  Towel  Supply 
Company,"  it  did  not  take  me  long  to  obey  orders. 
Nor  did  I  "git"  a  moment  too  soon,  for  as  I 
glanced  back  I  saw  him  reach  forward,  then  some 
thing  came  whizzing  over  my  head,  and  a  bar  of 
soap  landed  in  front  of  me. 

I  was  feeling  quite  blue,  so  called  on  friend  Bess 
for  advice.  Found  her  very  sympathetic  and  inter- 


THE  DIARY  OF  A   BOOK  AGENT 

ested.  She  said  that  having  disposed  of  all  the 
goods  she  had  on  hand,  her  time  was  her  own  while 
awaiting  instructions,  and  that  she  would  place  it 
at  my  disposal. 

I  did  not  exactly  understand  what  she  planned 
doing — was  too  sleepy  to  ask.  She  is  to  call  me 
early  in  the  morning. 


July  28th. 

Went  with  Bess  this  A.  M.  to  select  a  book  that 
will  yield  a  larger  profit  than  those  I  have  been  sell 
ing.  After  looking  over  the  catalogue  for  some 
time,  her  eyes  caught  a  title  which  she  pronounced 
a  money  maker,  it  was,  "How  to  Better  the  Condi 
tion  of  the  Poor  Without  Financial  Aid." 

She  immediately  put  ten  copies  in  the  satchel  and 
ordered  fifty  sent  home.  When  we  came  out  of  the 
publisher's  she  announced  her  intention  of  going 
around  with  me  and  showing  me  how  to  canvass. 

The  first  place  at  which  we  called  was  a  whole 
sale  linen  house.  We  did  not  know  the  name  of  any 
member  of  the  firm,  so  Bess  asked  to  see  the  man 
ager  and  was  shown  into  his  private  office. 

47 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

In  a  few  brief  sentences  she  explained  the  nature 
of  our  call,  told  him  of  the  hard  struggle  I  was 
having,  of  my  lack  of  experience,  etc.,  and  con 
cluded  with,  "Now,  from  what  I  have  heard  of 
your  kind  and  sympathetic  nature,  I  am  sure  you 
will  not  do  less  than  your  next-door  neighbor,  who 
told  us  to  call."  He  was  a  very  amiable-looking 
man,  with  soft-blue  eyes,  and  glancing  at  me  pleas 
antly,  he  inquired : 

"How  many  copies  did  Mr.  Rogers  take  ?" 

I  was  about  to  ask  who  Mr.  Rogers  was,  when 
Bess  quickly  said : 

"Three,"  and  tendered  him  the  like  number, 
which  he  paid  for  without  a  quibble.  After  thank 
ing  him,  she  begged  to  be  allowed  to  canvass  the 
clerks,  stating  that  Mr.  Rogers  had  granted  us  that 
privilege.  Having  obtained  permission,  she  walked 
quickly  down  the  store,  and  up  to  a  group  of  men 
who  were  standing  near  the  door. 

Saluting  them  with  a  hearty  "Good  morning,  gen 
tlemen,"  she  said,  "Your  manager  took  three  of 
these  books,  and  requests  that  you  each  buy  one  to 
help  this  young  lady  along."  She  then  took  several 
of  the  little  volumes  out  of  the  satchel. 

48 


THE  DIARY  OF  A   BOOK  AGENT 

As  soon  as  she  said  "books"  the  group  began  to 
disperse.  One  started  for  the  office,  another  sud 
denly  found  that  the  goods  on  a  distant  counter  had 
to  be  arranged.  I  could  see  that  the  others  were 
looking  for  a  way  to  escape.  So  did  Bess,  but,  pre 
tending  not  to  notice  it,  she  thanked  them  for  their 
attention,  and  started  in.  What  she  said  did  not 
amount  to  much,  but  it  had  the  desired  effect.  She 
began  by  telling  them  that  their  mothers  were 
women,  that  if  they  had  sisters  they  were  women. 
Of  course,  this  was  not  news  to  them,  but  it  made 
them  very  polite  listeners. 

Warming  up  to  the  subject  she  continued: 

"This  girl  is  a  woman  and  is  trying  to  make  an 
honest  living,  and,  as  American  men,  I  know  you 
will  willingly  patronize  her." 

Then  she  went  on  to  tell  them  that  it  was  on  ac 
count  of  the  American  man  that  she  was  proud  of 
being  an  American.  Here  she  placed  the  books  in 
the  hand  of  a  fatherly  looking  man,  who  said  he 
would  take  one.  After  making  a  selection  he  passed 
them  to  a  cadaverous-looking  youth,  with  a  squinty 
gray  eye,  who  accepted  them  rather  reluctantly. 
Bess  watched  him  closely,  then  in  a  voice  full  of 

49 


THE  DIARY  OF   A  BOOK  AGENT 

emotion,  remarked  that  he  was  the  living  image  of  a 
brother  whom  she  had  not  seen  for  years,  and  who 
was  the  dearest  boy  on  earth.  That  decided  him, 
and  he  took  one.  I  looked  up  quite  surprised,  for 
only  this  morning  she  told  me  that  she  was  an  only 
child. 

The  last  of  the  group  declared  he  had  so  many 
books  that  he  did  not  care  for  any  more,  but  when 
she  affirmed  that  from  his  accent  she  knew  he  was 
a  Southern  man,  adding  that  she  was  a  Southern 
woman,  and  that  he  could  not  go  back  on  her,  he, 
too,  capitulated  and  took  one.  Before  leaving  she 
inquired  if  Mr.  Rogers  were  on  the  right  or  left. 
Having  obtained  the  desired  information,  she  lost 
no  time  in  seeking  an  interview. 

Mr.  Rogers  was  a  small,  nervous-looking  man, 
with  an  air  of  hurry  about  him.  Very  abruptly  he 
inquired  what  we  wished  to  see  him  about.  Bess 
replied  to  this  question  in  a  very  concise  manner, 
offering  the  excuse  that  the  manager  next  door, 
who  bought  three  books,  had  suggested  our  calling. 

With  the  reply  that  he  was  very  much  obliged  to 
Mr.  Morse,  but  that  he  had  neither  time  nor  money 

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THE  DIARY   OF  A   BOOK  AGENT 

for  books,  he  turned  curtly  away ;  but  Bess's  eye  had 
caught  this  little  printed  sign  tacked  on  the  door : 

"We  Give  to  Charity  Organizations." 

And  she  was  after  him  in  a  flash.  Before  he 
could  re-enter  his  office  she  fairly  thrust  in  front 
of  him  the  red  cover  with  the  attractive  title  in  clear 
white  letters,  "How  to  Better  the  Condition  of  the 
Poor  Without  Financial  Aid." 

I  was  too  far  away  to  hear  the  argument  she 
used,  but  I  saw  him  put  the  book  under  his  arm,  and 
she  returned  with  a  two-dollar  bill. 

As  the  day  advanced  it  was  really  interesting  to 
see  how  quickly  she  could  adapt  herself  to  persons 
and  circumstances  to  further  a  purpose.  If  inter 
viewing  an  Eastern  man,  she  was  from  the  East,  if 
a  Western,  she  was  from  the  West.  Her  place  of 
birth  was  changed  so  many  times  to  suit  the  occasion 
that  I  think  it  embraced  every  State  in  the  Union; 
while  her  parents  were  English,  Irish,  French  or 
German,  as  the  situation  required.  One  of  her 
best  cards  was  the  resemblance  business.  In  most 

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THE   DIARY  OF  A   BOOK   AGENT 

cases  it  worked  like  a  charm.  I  think  she  must 
have  found  about  a  dozen  counterparts  of  her  fa 
ther,  and  just  as  many  of  her  brother;  each  differed 
in  type,  and  style,  but  every  one  of  them  seemed  to 
be  flattered  by  the  coincidence. 

All  this  she  called  tact,  and  the  results  proved 
that  it  worked  well,  for  the  satchel  was  empty  be 
fore  noon. 

The  rain  was  pouring  dreadfully  when  Bess  and 
I  came  out  of  the  restaurant.  The  "U.  O.  B.,"  who 
was  there  as  usual,  hurried  after  us  and  offered  his 
umbrella.  I  was  about  to  refuse  it,  but  Bess  pinched 
me. 

"Your  mother?"  he  asked  as  he  handed  it  to  me. 
"No,"  Bess  said  quickly,  "only  a  protecting  arm." 
He  inclined  his  head  very  slowly  and  gave  her  a 
searching  look,  which  she  returned  with  interest. 

"He  isn't  eating  in  that  cheap  restaurant  for 
nothing,"  she  said  with  a  parting  stare.  I  don't 
think  she  likes  him,  well,  I  don't  believe  I  do,  either; 
strange,  too,  for  he  is  very  kind  and  not  bad 
looking. 

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THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

July  30th. 

This  has  been  a  pleasant  and  profitable  day.  Bess 
went  canvassing  with  me,  and  we  had  no  difficulty 
in  disposing  of  a  dozen  books  before  luncheon. 
Nothing  out  of  the  ordinary  occurred  until  we 
were  passing  a  popular  theatre.  The  usual  Satur 
day  matinee  crowd  was  commencing  to  assemble. 
We  were  elbowing  our  way  through  the  fashion 
ably  dressed  throng,  when  suddenly  Bess  stopped. 

"How  would  you  like  to  go  to  the  matinee?"  she 
asked,  with  a  smile. 

For  answer  I  stuck  out  a  foot  and  pointing  down 
ward  said : 

"Shoes  before  shows." 

After  a  few  moments'  deliberation  she  tapped  me 
confidentially  on  the  shoulder  and  whispered :  "Just 
follow  me  in,  and  see  me  get  two  tickets  out  of  old 
man ." 

Quite  elated  at  the  prospect  of  a  little  diversion,  I 
glibly  inquired  if  she  were  acquainted  with  him. 

She  gave  me  a  quizzical  glance  and  said:  "No 
more  than  you  are;  but  if  I  can  get  him  to  think  I 
am,  it  will  serve  my  purpose  just  as  well.  'Noth 
ing  ventured  nothing  have.' ' 

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THE   DIARY  OF   A  BOOK   AGENT 

So  saying,  she  walked  up  to  the  box  office  and 

asked  to  see  Mr.  .    Her  disappointment  was 

so  apparent  when  told  that  he  was  at  home,  sick 
with  the  gout,  that  the  polite  box  office  clerk  sug 
gested  she  see  Mr.  David ,  the  younger  son. 

In  a  second  she  brightened  up,  took  a  card  from 
her  pocket,  wrote  a  few  lines  on  it,  and  gave  it  to 
the  boy  who  had  been  summoned  to  deliver  her 
message. 

"Now  all  depends  on  the  way  I  play  my  part," 
she  remarked  sotto  voce,  as  we  were  being  con 
ducted  to  the  private  office. 

On  entering  the  room  Bess  extended  her  hand 
to  a  short,  heavily-built  young  man,  who  introduced 

himself  as  Mr.  ,  and  looking  him  steadily  in 

the  eye  with  cool  deliberation,  asked : 

"Have  I  got  to  tell  you  who  I  am?" 

"You  certainly  have  the  advantage  of  me, 
madam,"  he  replied  with  a  slight  inclination  of  the 
head. 

"Look  me  in  the  face  and  then  dare  to  tell  me 
you  don't  remember  me,"  and  she  smilingly  held  up 
her  face  for  his  inspection. 

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THE   DIARY  OF   A   BOOK   AGENT 

The  young  man  did  as  she  requested,  then  slowly 
shook  his  head,  as  if  trying  to  recollect. 

"And  I  flattered  myself  that  you  had  not  for 
gotten  me,"  she  said  with  an  air  of  well-feigned  dis 
appointment. 

"Don't  you  remember  Aunt  Lottie  who  used  to 
give  you  all  the  nice  cookies  and  doughnuts  ?  Aunt 
Lottie  who  lived  next  door  to  you?"  she  purred 
sweetly. 

But  he  continued  to  shake  his  head,  thus  mutely 
denying  all  recollection  of  her  and  the  cookies. 

She  thought  a  moment,  then  took  another  tack : 

"You  certainly  have  an  ungrateful,  treacherous 

memory,  Dave  ,"  she  remarked  playfully. 

"Why,  every  time  your  mother  was  going  to  punish 
you,  or  give  you  a  bath,  you  would  run  to  hide  in 
Aunt  Lottie's  apartment,  don't  you  remember  that?" 
And  she  beamed  on  him  tenderly. 

A  smile  played  about  his  mouth.  It  did  not  es 
cape  her  notice.  The  light  of  memory  seemed 
to  be  slowly  dawning,  so  she  quickly  followed  with : 
"And  many  a  time  did  you  beg  Aunt  Lottie  to  give 
you  the  bath,  because  she  didn't  scrub  you  quite  so 

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THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK   AGENT 

hard.  Oh !  how  you  did  hate  to  be  washed."  And 
her  laughter  filled  the  office.  Her  enjoyment  of  the 
recollection  was  so  hearty  and  genuine  that  I  joined 
in  the  laugh,  then  he  laughed,  too,  and  jestingly 
covering  his  face  with  his  hands,  he  said : 

"Mother  always  vowed  I  was  the  dirtiest  little 
kid  she  ever  owned." 

She  had  struck  the  right  course. 

"It  does  seem  awfully  stupid  of  me  to  forget  you, 
but  I  must  have  been  such  a  little  shaver,"  he  said 
apologetically. 

"Yes,  you  were  a  very  small  shaver  then,  and  a 
very  big  man  now ;  but  not  too  big  a  man  for  me  to 
kiss,"  and  before  he  had  time  to  protest  (if  he 
wanted  to),  she  landed  a  kiss  on  each  cheek.  He 
grew  very  red  in  the  face,  and  looked  as  though  he 
wondered  if  she  thought  he  had  grown  too  big  for 
a  bath. 

Ere  the  blush  had  faded  from  his  countenance 
Bess  became  very  pensive.  Seating  herself  de 
murely  in  the  large  office  chair,  she  fidgeted  un 
easily  with  the  catch  on  the  satchel.  Presently  she 
pushed  it  back,  opened  the  satchel  and  hesitatingly 
extracted  two  books. 

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THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

"Dave,"  she  said  with  a  timid  break  in  her  voice, 
"I  am  selling  these  books  to  raise  sufficient  money 
to  send  my  daughter  back  to  Vassar."  She  placed 
her  hand  affectionately  on  my  shoulder.  "You  see, 
her  father's  death  left  me  without  means,  so  I  was 
compelled  to  take  her  from  college;  but  she  is  just 
dying  to  go  back,  and  as  I  know  what  an  education 
means  to  a  woman  nowadays,  I  am  making  a  great 
effort  to  gratify  her  ambition.  Dave,"  she  con 
tinued,  leaning  forward,  "I  am  almost  ashamed  to 
ask  it,  but  will  you  take  one  or  two  of  these  books 
to  help  me  out?" 

He  glanced  sympathizingly  at  me,  then  turned  to 
her. 

"What  do  they  cost,  and  how  many  have  you 
there?"  he  inquired,  peering  good-naturedly  into 
the  satchel. 

She  told  him  the  price  and  started  to  count  the 
books. 

"Oh,  never  mind  to  count  them,  I'll  take  the 
whole  bunch,"  and  he  handed  her  a  five-dollar  bill, 
telling  her  to  keep  the  change. 

"And  now  I  want  you  to  go  right  up  to  the  house 
and  see  the  folks,  I  know  mother  will  be  glad  to  see 

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THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK   AGENT 

you,"  he  said,  giving  her  the  address  and  directions 
how  to  reach  his  house. 

Bess  seemed  a  little  troubled,  but  she  took  the 
card  and  rose  to  leave.  The  interview  appeared  to 
be  over.  So  far  nothing  had  been  said  about  the 
tickets,  and  it  looked  as  though  we  would  have  to 
leave  without  them,  but  I  soon  found  out  that  she 
was  not  quite  through,  for  at  the  door  she  turned 
and  casually  asked: 

"How  is  business?    Drawing  large  houses?" 

"Crowds !  Turning  away  people  at  every  per 
formance,"  he  replied  with  enthusiasm. 

"Dear  me,"  sighed  Bess,  "and  we  came  hoping  to 
secure  tickets." 

"Not  a  seat  for  sale ;  but  you  can  have  the  use  of 
our  box,  Aunt  Lottie.  I  will  call  you  so  for  old 
times'  sake,"  he  said  gallantly.  And  escorting  us 
to  the  door  of  the  theatre  he  placed  us  in  charge  of 
an  usher. 

"A  private  box  at  the  opera!  Well,  he  really 
could  not  do  less  for  his  Aunt  Lottie,"  and  settling 
back  pompously  in  her  chair  she  surveyed  the  au 
dience  with  critical  hauteur. 

"No  harm  had  been  done,  no  one  injured,  or 
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THE  DIARY  OF   A   BOOK   AGENT 

wronged,"  reasoned  Bess  thoughtfully  on  her  way 
home.  "The  whole  thing  is  only  a  practical  joke." 

This  was  said  in  answer  to  a  protest  from  me. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  my  child,"  she  remarked  as  I 
walked  silently  by  her  side.  "I  won't  set  you  any 
bad  examples.  I  sometimes  resort  to  a  harmless 
white  lie,  but  I  have  never  done  anything  that  would 
make  me  ashamed  to  look  my  conscience  in  the  face. 
It  won't  be  long  before  you  learn  how  little  is  ac 
complished  by  truthful,  straightforward  methods," 
she  continued,  looking  as  serious  as  her  round,  dim 
pled  face  would  permit. 

"Would  we  have  gotten  the  tickets  if  I  had  told 
him  you  were  dying  to  see  the  opera,  but  had  to  buy 
shoes?  I  guess  not!  You  have  tried  to  sell  books 
on  straight  lines.  How  many  have  you  sold?  I 
have  resorted  to  the  tricks  of  the  trade,  how  many 
have  you  seen  me  sell  ?" 

I  did  not  reply.  I  was  thinking  hard,  and  won 
dering  if  I  really  cared  to  be  a  business  woman  un 
der  such  conditions. 

Later  in  the  evening  I  took  tea  with  Bess,  and 
while  talking  over  our  experience  she  informed 
me  that  many  of  the  things  she  had  said  and  donq 

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THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK   AGENT 

were  to  demonstrate  forcibly  just  how  much  could 
be  accomplished  by  assurance  and  tact. 


July  3 1  st. 

"Can  a  man  run  into  a  closet  to  hide  from  a 
woman  and  emerge  from  it  feeling  that  he  is  every 
whit  a  man?" 

This  is  the  question  I  put  to  Bess  before  telling 
her  of  my  early  morning's  adventure. 

"It  depends  entirely  on  the  size  of  the  man,"  was 
her  epigrammatic  reply. 

That  set  me  thinking  how  very  small  those  two 
young  men  must  be,  who,  just  as  soon  as  they 
caught  a  glimpse  of  me  coming  up  the  steps  with 
the  books  they  had  ordered  on  Saturday,  ran  helter- 
skelter  into  a  closet,  and  actually  shut  themselves 
in.  At  first  I  felt  annoyed,  then  I  thought  I  would 
have  some  fun  for  my  trouble,  so  I  walked  noise 
lessly  over  to  the  closet,  quietly  turned  the  key  in 
the  door,  and  left  the  office. 

N.  B. — Never  hide  in  a  closet  and  leave  the  key 
in  the  lock. 

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THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

August  ist. 

PROGRESSIVE  WATCHMAN 

WASHINGTON   BEECHER   THOMPSON 

PROPRIETOR 

This  was  what  I  read  on  the  door  of  an  office  this 
morning.  Then  I  turned  the  knob  and  entered — a 
well-groomed  colored  man  advanced  to  meet  me — • 
I  hesitated  before  saying: 

"I  represent  the  'Elite  Publishing  Company.' ' 

"A  book  agent  ?" 

The  disdainful  elevation  of  his  nose  did  not  es 
cape  my  notice,  and  I  humbly  acknowledged  that  I 
followed  the  despised  calling. 

"My  dear  madam,  don't  you  know  that  a  news 
paper  office  is  a  poor  place  in  which  to  sell  books?" 
he  remarked  in  a  dignified,  solemn  manner. 

As  soon  as  he  said  newspaper  office  I  looked 
around  for  the  door.  He  smiled  reassuringly. 

"So  you  are  trying  to  sell  books?"  the  tone  was 
decidedly  condescending.  "Well,  we  will  grant  you 
an  interview,"  and  crossing  over  to  a  door  bearing 

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THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK   AGENT 

the  inscription,   "City  Editor,"  he  threw  it  open. 
"Kindly  walk  into  the  sanctum  sanctimonous." 

"What  a  fine  sense  of  humor,"  I  mused,  as  I 
crossed  the  threshold  and  dropped  into  the  seat  near 
the  desk. 

"Let  me  inform  you,  my  dear  lady,"  he  observed, 
settling  back  comfortably  in  his  chair,  "that  we 
never  purchase  books,  for  the  simple  reason  that  the 
publishers  send  us  tons  upon  tons  of  them.  You 
see,  they  knows  that  the  Watchman  has  an  enormous 
circulation,  and  so,  of  course,  they  are  desirous  to 
ascertain  the  stamp  of  its  approval,  realizing  as  they 
does  that  on  its  staff  are  men  endued  with  great  in 
tellectualities,  brainy  thinkers,  who  try  to  disencour- 
age  ratiocinations,  and  the  individual  development 
of  man's  brains,  as  an  independent  thinking  ma 
chine." 

I  shifted  uneasily  from  one  side  of  my  chair  to 
the  other.  Was  I  so  nervous  that  I  could  not  hear 
correctly,  or  was  the  phrasing  too  far  above  my 
limited  intellect?  Surely  an  editor  is  an  editor, 
black  or  white,  and  an  editor  can  never  be  wrong. 

So  I  leaned  forward,  all  attention.  After  an  ef 
fective  pause  he  took  a  deep  breath. 

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THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

"Madam,"  he  thundered,  with  inflated  chest, 
"have  you  ever  given  consideration  to  the  pernicious 
characteristics  of  promiscuous  literature,  issued  by 
inscrupulous  men  with  but  one  object  in  review — 
financial  gain?" 

I  really  was  at  a  loss  what  to  say,  so  I  dumbly 
shook  my  head,  and  rose  to  leave ;  but  he  waved  me 
back  majestically. 

"Then,  madam,  let  me  tell  you,  that  is  the  reason 
why  the  Watchman  voluminously  declars  that  all 
literary  outputs  must  be  pro  bunco  republico!" 

This  sort  of  Latin  was  too  much  for  me,  so  I 
placed  the  books  in  my  satchel  and  made  a  hasty 
retreat. 

On  my  way  down  I  remarked  to  the  elevator  boy 
that  I  was  just  from  an  interview  with  the  repre 
sentative  editor  of  his  race. 

"That  weren't  no  editor  you  saw,  ma'am,"  he 
said  sneeringly.  "That's  only  the  office  man.  Mr. 
Thompson  been  gone  to  Washington  for  over  a 
week." 

This  morning  I  proposed  taking  the  "U.  O.  B.'s" 
umbrella  to  his  office,  but  Bess  said  "No"  so  per 
emptorily  that  I  dropped  the  subject.  When  I  came 

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THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK   AGENT 

home  the  umbrella  was  gone,  and  so  was  Bess.  She 
hasn't  said  a  word  to  me  about  it,  but  I  know  she 
has  taken  it  back.  She  is  certainly  acting  queerly. 


Aug.  2d. 

"I  am  sorry,  but  I  can't  buy  any  books — out  of 
the  question — can't  afford  it."  So  said  the  proprie 
tor  of  a  circulating  agency  that  I  canvassed  this 
morning. 

I  looked  from  the  diamond  horseshoe  pin  flash 
ing  dazzlingly  in  the  soft  folds  of  his  red  satin  tie  to 
the  brilliant  solitaire  that  glittered  on  his  ringer ;  and 
I  looked  what  I  thought — he  winced. 

"I  really  don't  want  them — perhaps  the  truth 
suits  you  better,"  and  he  laughed  pleasantly.  "Try 
these  men — you  have  my  permission." 

But  it  did  not  take  me  long  to  discover  that  the 
hundred  or  more  of  seedily  clothed  men  whom 
he  employed  to  address  envelopes  were  too  poor  to 
spend  money  for  anything  but  necessities. 

A  sad- faced  old  man  told  me  he  made  only  sixty 
or  seventy  cents  per  day.  "Just  enough  to  keep 
body  and  soul  together." 

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THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

"Can't  you  get  anything  else  to  do  that  would 
pay  you  better?"  I  asked,  taking  the  seat  beside  him. 

"Ah,  my  dear,  I  am  one  of  those  unfortunates  for 
whom  the  world  has  no  use — a  poor  old  man,"  he 
said  wearily. 

"Not  so  long  ago  I  held  a  responsible  position  in 
a  wealthy  concern — went  there  when  a  mere  lad, 
and  worked  my  way  up.  But  as  the  years  came 
piling  on,  they  commenced  sending  me  step  by  step 
down  the  ladder  I  had  climbed.  Well,  I  had  grown 
old,  and  what  could  I  do,"  he  said,  in  a  piping, 
plaintive  voice. 

"I  came  earlier  than  any  of  the  other  clerks,  I 
left  later;  but  it  was  no  use — I  tell  you,  my  child, 
the  good  Lord  knew  what  He  was  about  when  he 
set  the  allotted  time  for  man.  I  have  exceeded  the 
limit — that  is  all — that  is  all." 

After  I  had  swallowed  two  or  three  times  and 
blinked  away  the  mist  from  my  eyes,  I  rose  to  go. 
"I  am  coming  to  see  you  again  if  you  will  let  me," 
I  said,  in  a  low,  coaxing  tone. 

He  smiled  acquiescently,  then  his  hand  went  fum 
bling  into  his  edge-frayed  vest  pocket.  "See  here, 
you  have  lost  lots  of  time  talking  to  me,  and  I  am 

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THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK   AGENT 

going  to  divide  this  with  you,"  and  he  held  up  a  ten- 
cent  piece.  "Just  giye  me  a  nickel." 

It  was  in  vain  that  I  told  him  I  would  not  take  it ; 
in  vain  I  assured  him  I  did  not  need  the  money.  He 
was  so  insistent  that  I  had  to  accept  it.  But  for 
once  my  wits  came  to  my  aid,  and  prompted  me  to 
do  the  right  thing.  Selecting  a  twenty-five  cent 
piece  from  my  purse  I  placed  it  in  his  hand,  saying : 
"Well!  to  please  you,  I  will  take  it."  He  did  not 
look  at  the  change,  and  I  was  glad  when  it  was 
safely  lodged  in  his  pocket. 

Oh,  dear,  I  wish  I  were  a  millionaire.  A  great 
thinker  like  Emerson  said  that  popular  charities  and 
the  educating  of  fools  at  colleges  would  never  get  a 
dollar  of  his  money,  and  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say 
the  same.  Right  here  is  where  I  would  put  some 
of  mine. 

The  "U.  O.  B."  is  to  call  this  evening.  Bess  never 
told  me  she  had  invited  him  until  a  few  minutes 
ago. 


Aug.  3'd. 

I   came   home   to-day   with   my   satchel    nearly 
empty.    Bess  says  she  is  quite  proud  of  her  pupil. 

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THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

Canvassed  Washington  Street  and  around  Wash 
ington  Market  this  A.  M.,  and  sold  nine  books.  The 
profit  was  only  $1.25,  but  what  pleased  and  sur 
prised  me  was  the  fact  that  I  came  in  contact  with 
men  who  were  gentlemen,  in  the  broad  and  true  ac 
ceptation  of  the  term — courteous,  polite  and  kind. 
Even  when  they  refused  to  buy  it  was  done  with 
real  consideration. 

Indeed,  I  was  so  elated  by  the  treatment  I  re 
ceived  that  I  took  the  cars  and  rode  up  to  Goose 
Market.  Dear  me,  one  would  hardly  imagine  there 
was  any  difference  between  "Washington"  and 
"Goose"  market,  but  there  is,  and  a  great  one.  No 
kind  refusals,  no  purchases,  no  offers  of  fruit,  etc. 
I  worked  for  several  hours  without  selling  a  book, 
and  met  with  such  a  lot  of  disagreeable  men. 

One  told  me  it  was  not  customary  for  ladies  to 
come  down  there  after  three  P.  M.  I  begged  he 
would  pardon  my  ignorance  of  the  delicate  distinc 
tion  of  Goose  Market  etiquette. 


Aug.  3d. 

Sold  seven  books  to-day.    Not  so  bad. 
After  a  fruitless  canvass  of  six  floors  in  a  large 
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THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK   AGENT 

office  building,  I  came  across  a  lad  with  sufficient 
love  for  classic  literature  to  purchase  "How  I  Won 
a  Fortune  at  Monte  Carlo."  He  was  a  pleasant  lit 
tle  fellow,  and  he  gave  me  the  name  of  a  party  on 
the  floor  below  who  he  thought  would  also  take  a 
copy.  Of  course  I  went  right  down. 

All  persuasion  failed  to  make  this  young  man  buy 
a  book,  but  he  went  away  promising  to  send  a 
friend  who  he  thought  would  like  one.  In  a  few 
minutes  the  friend  came  out  of  an  inner  office.  He, 
too,  did  not  care  to  get  any  books,  but  would  send  a 
friend  who  he  felt  sure  would.  His  friend  said  pre 
cisely  the  same  thing,  and  retired  to  be  replaced  by 
another  friend  who  in  turn  sent  another  friend. 

I  did  not  find  this  sort  of  business  profitable,  but 
was  taking  my  chances  of  making  a  sale.  While 
innocently  waiting  for  the  next  friend,  a  tall,  heav 
ily  built,  energetic-looking  man,  bristling  with  ex 
citement,  appeared  in  the  doorway,  and  in  a  voice 
that  would  have  scared  the  life  out  of  any  woman 
but  a  book  agent,  shouted: 

"Madam,  I  demand  that  you  leave  this  office  im 
mediately.  You  are  demoralizing  my  entire  staff  of 
clerks,  and  impeding  the  progress  of  my  business; 

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THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK   AGENT 

besides,  these  young  men  have  no  intention  of  buy 
ing  any  books.  They  are  only  jollying  each  other." 

"Under  these  circumstances,  you  might  have  a 
little  consideration  for  me,  sir,"  I  ventured  by  way 
of  mild  rebuke.  I  seemed  to  have  been  unfortunate 
in  the  selection  of  the  word  "consideration,"  for  he 
yelled:  "Consideration!  Consideration!  That  is 
the  best  thing  I  have  heard  for  a  long  time.  Con 
sideration  for  a  book  agent  who  comes  into  my  of 
fice  and  boldly  interviews  half  a  dozen  young  men!" 

"I  am  seeking  business  in  a  perfectly  legitimate 
manner,"  I  remarked,  trying  to  defend  myself. 

"If  we  want  books  we  know  where  to  find  them. 
I  have  made  a  cast-iron  rule  never  to  purchase  from 
agents,  or  permit  them  to  go  through  my  offices, 
and  I  don't  propose  to  have  it  broken,"  he  replied 
sharply. 

"A  very  good  rule,  but  it's  a  poor  one  that  doesn't 
work  both  ways,"  said  a  voice  from  behind. 

I  turned  to  see  who  the  speaker  was,  and  found 
myself  looking  into  a  face  that  bore  the  stamp  of 
high  living  and  good  nature. 

"What  makes  you  so  hard  on  the  girl,  Bell?" 
asked  the  owner  of  the  face.  The  only  reply  he  got 

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THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

was  a  meaningless  laugh.  "I'll  be  d d!"  said 

the  stranger  emphatically,  "but  you  fellows  hound  a 
man  to  death  to  get  your  business,  then  go  to  work 
and  bully  a  poor  little  woman  for  doing  the  same 
thing.  Take  a  little  of  your  own  medicine,  man ;  it 
will  do  you  good,"  and  he  slapped  him  of  the  iron 
rule  familiarly  on  the  back. 

My  defender  had  evidently  just  dined,  and  the 
scent  that  hung  round  him  still  was  more  suggestive 
of  the  vine  than  the  rose,  but  I  gave  him  a  grateful 
look  and  slipped  quietly  out  of  the  office. 

I  don't  know  whether  the  lump  in  my  throat  was 
caused  by  a  sensitive  nature  or  a  bad  temper,  but  it 
was  some  time  before  I  got  rid  of  it  and  resumed 
work,  I  was  so  nervous  and  timid,  however,  that  I 
could  not  sell  another  book,  so  I  stopped  trying,  and 
came  home  with  a  wretched  headache. 

He  is  taking  us  to  the  theatre  this  evening.  His 
sister  is  going  also.  Says  he  wants  me  to  meet  her. 
Somehow  I  don't  think  she  will  like  me. 


Aug.  4th. 

The  two  weeks  that  I  agreed  to  work  for  the 
"Elite  Publishing  Company"  expired  to-day,  and  I 

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THE   DIARY  OF  A   BOOK   AGENT 

had  such  a  disagreeable  time  this  morning  with  a 
horrid  old  lawyer  that  I  gave  up  positively  dis 
gusted. 

After  threading  my  way  through  two  dark,  dingy 
offices,  which  were  literally  filled  with  dirty-looking 
old  books,  I  stood  in  the  doorway  of  a  third  room 
marked  "Private/'  and  somewhat  afraid  of  the 
gloomy  stillness,  peeped  in  cautiously. 

Musty,  dust-covered  books  bound  in  aged  calf, 
greeted  me  on  every  side ;  they  lined  the  walls,  they 
strewed  the  floor,  they  were  piled  on  tables  and  on 
chairs.  In  fact,  every  available  nook  and  corner 
was  filled  with  papers  and  books  that  fairly  vied 
with  each  other  in  age  and  dust. 

Near  the  only  window  from  which  the  light  was 
not  excluded  by  the  time-worn  books  sat  a  withered- 
up  old  man  writing  with  an  antiquated  quill  pen. 
My  experience  of  yesterday  had  sapped  my  courage, 
so  instead  of  entering  I  stood  on  the  threshold  of 
the  door  and  cleared  my  throat,  hoping  to  attract 
his  attention;  but  as  he  did  not  look  up,  I  ap 
proached  a  little  nearer  and  coughed.  Still  he  went 
on  writing.  Then  I  walked  over  to  his  desk  and 
coughed  again,  but  he  never  raised  his  eyes. 

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THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK   AGENT 

After  waiting  a  few  minutes,  I  decided  not  to  dis 
turb  him,  and  was  trying  to  get  out  as  noiselessly 
as  I  could,  when  the  folds  of  my  dress  caught  in  a 
pile  of  old  papers  on  a  chair  and  as  they  fluttered 
to  the  floor  he  looked  up  with  a  start  and  a  smile. 

"Well!  Well!  When  did  you  get  here?"  he 
said,  rising  and  taking  both  my  hands  in  his. 

I  told  him  I  was  sorry  to  disappoint  him,  but  that 
I  was  not  the  person  he  was  evidently  expecting. 
He  took  no  notice  of  what  I  was  saying,  and  still 
keeping  hold  of  my  hands,  conducted  me  to  a  chair. 

"I  am  only  a  stranger,"  I  said,  as  I  took  the  seat 
beside  him.  "Just  a " 

"You  must  speak  a  little  louder,  my  dear,"  he  re 
quested  before  I  had  finished  my  sentence.  "Didn't 
your  father  tell  you  I  was  deaf?" 

"I  am  not  the  person  you  are  evidently  expect 
ing,"  I  said  in  a  higher  key. 

"Can't  hear  a  word — terrible  affliction — been  like 
this  for  twenty  years,"  and  he  tapped  his  ears  with 
the  tips  of  his  fingers.  "Grows  worse  and  worse 
every  day — tried  everything — no  use." 

He  was  a  very  old  man,  with  a  queer  little  face 
covered  with  a  grizzly  beard,  but  it  was  a  kind, 

72 


pleasant-looking  face.  And  I  really  felt  sorry  for 
him  and  did  tell  him  so,  but  he  only  smiled  blandly 
and  asked : 

"Had  your  lunch?" 

I  nodded  my  head  and  said  "Yes." 

"Where  did  you  eat  it?" 

I  had  to  answer  so  I  shouted,  "In  my  room." 

"In  Rome,  eh?  Well,  that's  a  long  time  ago. 
We'll  go  and  get  something  to  eat." 

"No!  No!"  I  yelled,  making  a  desperate  effort 
for  him  to  hear  me. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  must  be  hungry."  And  he  crossed 
over  to  his  desk,  and  commenced  gathering  up  the 
papers. 

"Don't  look  a  bit  like  your  father,"  he  said,  paus 
ing  to  look  at  me  over  the  gold  rim  of  his  spectacles. 
"Twenty  years  between  us — I  was  the  first  and  he 
the  last." 

By  this  remark  I  found  out  that  he  had  mistaken 
me  for  his  niece,  and  as  my  only  thought  now  was 
how  to  get  out  of  his  office,  I  picked  up  an  ear  trum 
pet  that  was  lying  on  the  desk  and  screeched  in  his 
ear: 

"I  am  not  your  niece !" 
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THE  DIARY  OF   A   BOOK   AGENT 

"What  doesn't  look  nice?"  he  asked  kindly. 
"Your  dress?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"Your  hat?" 

Again  I  replied  in  the  negative,  vainly  trying 
to  make  him  hear. 

"Looks  quite  well  enough  to  go  out  with  an  old 
man  like  me;  however,  we  will  buy  you  a  new  one. 
But  you  must  learn  to  speak  a  little  more  distinctly," 
and  he  patted  me  under  the  chin. 

I  was  fairly  at  my  wits'  end  to  make  the  old  man 
understand  me,  so  seizing  a  pen  I  \vrote : 

"I  am  not  your  niece,  only  a  book  agent,"  and 
placing  the  slip  of  paper  in  his  hand  awaited  re 
sults. 

I  had  not  long  to  wait.  Talk  of  lightning 
changes,  nothing  ever  surpassed  this  transition  from 
smiles  to  frowns,  from  caresses  to  curses.  It  was 
natural  for  him  to  be  disappointed,  but  I  hardly 
looked  for  the  tempest  that  broke  out  after  he  had 
grasped  the  situation.  Such  cursing  and  swearing 
I  never  heard.  He  first  cursed  my  father,  then  he 

cursed  me,  then  he  cursed  himself  for  being  a  d 

deaf  old  fool. 

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THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK   AGENT 

He  got  so  nervous  that  he  could  hardly  articulate, 
and  stopped  to  punctuate  every  word  with  "Eh !  eh ! 
eh !  eh !"  In  his  fury  he  picked  up  two  of  my  books 
and  thrust  them  into  a  drawer  with  some  papers  he 
was  putting  away.  Then  he  rushed  from  the  room. 
I  was  becoming  quite  used  to  rough  treatment;  in 
fact,  getting  actually  indifferent,  and  as  I  did  not 
propose  to  go  away  without  my  books,  I  waited  his 
return  with  stony  composure. 

Back  he  came  in  a  few  minutes,  still  raging  furi 
ously  about  my  tricks  and  blandishments.  Stum 
bling  over  my  satchel  in  his  excitement,  he  would 
have  landed  on  his  face  had  I  not  put  out  my  hand 
and  caught  him,  for  which  kind  act  he  gave  the 
satchel  a  vicious  kick.  I  did  not  allow  this  to  dis 
concert  me  in  the  least,  but  wrote  a  request  for  my 
books  and  passed  it  to  him.  As  he  was  about  to 
read  the  slip  of  paper,  the  door  opened  and  a  stal 
wart-looking  man,  clad  in  gray  uniform,  appeared 
on  the  scene. 

"Janitor,"  said  the  old  man,  puffing  and  blowing 
and  hemming  and  hawing,  "I  rang  the  bell — eh !  eh ! 
— for  you  to  put  this  young  woman  out — eh !  eh ! — 
she  is  a  book  agent — eh !  eh ! — and  has  been  annoy- 

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THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

ing  me  for  the  last  hour — eh !  eh !"  and  he  sank  back 
exhausted  in  his  chair. 

The  janitor  looked  on  me  not  unkindly  while  I 
explained  matters,  then  very  politely  informed  me 
that  he  was  sorry,  but  as  my  presence  had  been 
brought  to  his  notice  he  would  have  to  see  that  I  left 
the  building. 

As  I  started  to  follow  him  out  I  gave  the  old  man 
a  look  that  meant  much.  My  face  and  manner  must 
have  shown  the  humiliation  I  felt,  for  his  eyes 
avoided  mine.  The  expression  of  his  countenance 
changed,  and  leaning  far  over  his  desk  he  called  out 
anxiously  to  the  janitor,  who  was  holding  the  door 
open  for  me  to  pass  out. 

"Be  gentle  with  her,  janitor;  I  know  what  brutes 
you  fellows  are." 

While  we  were  waiting  to  take  the  elevator  he 
came  out  on  a  halting  run  and  thrusting  an  en 
velope  and  the  two  books  into  my  hand,  he  hobbled 
away  without  saying  a  word.  On  my  way  down  I 
opened  the  envelope  and  found  it  contained  a  two- 
dollar  bill.  I  was  perfectly  indignant,  and  wanted 
to  return  it  to  him,  but  the  janitor  persuaded  me  to 
keep  it  by  telling  me  he  was  one  of  the  best-hearted 

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THE  DIARY  OF  A  BOOK  AGENT 

men  in  the  world,,  but  a  great  crank,  and  that  no 

one  ever  took  any  notice  of  what  old  Mac said 

or  did. 

When  I  got  out  of  the  building  I  made  a  bee- 
line  for  the  office  of  the  "Elite  Publishing  Com 
pany,"  and  told  Mr.  Smart  that  I  was  through  with 
canvassing  for  all  time. 

He  was  very  considerate,  and  offered  me  a  posi 
tion  in  the  office,  which  I  accepted.  The  salary  is 
small,  but  it  is  better  than  being  a  book  agent.  They 
say  many  make  a  success  of  it.  Well,  I  belong  to 
the  many  that  do  not,  and  I  can't  say  I  regret  it 
very  much. 

A  special  messenger  has  just  brought  me  some 
beautiful  roses.  They  are  from  him.  He  writes 
that  he  is  coming  up  this  evening  if  I  have  no  ob 
jections.  Bess  approves,  and  I — well,  I  have  said 
come. 


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The  Modern  Philanthropist 


THE    MODERN     PHILANTHROPIST. 

Elizabeth  Lindley. 

"The  board  of  directors  meets  at  ten  o'clock,  so  I 
must  ask  you  to  be  brief,"  said  Martin  Livingston, 
the  multi-millionaire,  head  of  the  Copper  Trust,  to 
his  private  secretary,  who  had  just  entered  the 
library. 

The  secretary,  noting  that  the  financier  was  fully 
dressed  for  the  street,  hastily  selected  several  sheets 
of  typewritten  matter  from  a  pile  of  papers  on  the 
desk  and  tendered  them  to  him. 

Mr.  Livingston  passed  them  back. 

"I  haven't  time  to  go  into  detail — just  read  the 
list." 

It  was  the  thirty-first  of  December,  the  date  on 
which  for  the  past  twelve  years  Martin  Livingston, 
known  far  and  near  as  the  greatest  philanthropist 
of  the  age,  announced  to  the  world  his  princely 
contribution  for  the  advancement  of  education  and 
the  betterment  of  his  fellow  men.  It  was  this  an- 

78 


THE  MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

nual  schedule  of  charities  that  the  secretary  was 
now  submitting. 

Mr.  Livingston  listened  attentively  to  the  read 
ing  of  the  list,  signifying  his  approval  by  an  occa 
sional  nod.  At  its  conclusion  he  rose,  lit  a  cigar, 
drew  on  his  gloves  and  sauntered  nonchalantly  into 
the  spacious  hallway.  Stopping  at  the  outer  door 
he  patted  his  favorite  collie;  then  descending  the 
steps,  entered  his  waiting  automobile  with  as  little 
concern  as  if  he  had  given  away  a  trifling  sum  in 
stead  of  six  million  dollars. 

That  same  afternoon  a  despondent-looking  man 
stepped  up  to  a  news-stand,  put  his  hand  in  his 
pocket,  took  out  a  five-cent  piece  and  a  few  coppers, 
looked  at  the  change,  then  at  the  papers,  hesitated, 
threw  down  a  penny  and  picked  up  a  paper;  but 
before  he  had  fairly  taken  it  off  the  stand  an  arm 
shot  over  his  shoulder,  the  paper  was  snatched  from 
his  hand  and  the  single  word,  "Spendthrift!"  was 
hissed  in  his  ear. 

Evidently  the  voice  was  a  familiar  one,  for  the 
man  turned  and  greeted  his  admonisher  with  a 
smile,  a  friendly  nod,  and  "Hello,  Philip!  What 
are  you  doing  down  here?" 

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THE   MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

"I  am  here  to  keep  you  from  squandering  your 
money,  and  to  see  that  you  go  home  sober." 

The  reply,  though  gravely  given,  was  not  con 
vincing,  for  the  newsdealer  glanced  suspiciously 
from  the  face  of  the  speaker  to  that  of  the  other 
man,  and  as  they  linked  arms  and  passed  on  up  the 
crowded  thoroughfare,  he  winked  knowingly  to 
his  neighbor,  the  fruit  vender,  from  whom  Philip 
Harvey  had  purchased  a  small  quantity  of  fruit. 

"What  an  infernally  degrading  thing  poverty  is," 
Harvey  said,  hugging  the  bag  of  oranges  to  his 
breast.  "Imagine  a  gentleman  haggling  over  a  few 
cents'  worth  of  stuff  and  then  having  to  carry  it 
home  himself !" 

His  friend  smiled  indulgently.  "The  situation  is 
very  unpleasant,  I  will  admit,  but  I  believe  in  accept 
ing  gracefully  that  which  cannot  be  avoided,  for 
you  know  'It  is  hard  to  kick  against  the  pricks.' ' 

Harvey  shook  his  head  disapprovingly.  "That  is 
excellent  philosophy,"  he  said  after  a  prolonged 
pause ;  "but  it  is  my  opinion  that  a  man  can't  afford 
to  reason  along  those  lines  until  he  has  reached  the 
age  of  sixty.  Why,  that  sort  of  philosophy  is  death 
to  ambition,  and  without  ambition  there  are  few 

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THE  MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

achievements.  You  certainly  agree  with  me  on  that 
point  ?" 

His  companion  winced  visibly  at  the  unintended 
thrust.  "It  is  very  natural  for  you  to  look  at  things 
in  that  light;  you  have  a  profession  and  hope  that 
some  day " 

"Hope some  day "  Harvey  interjected, 

gazing  vacantly  ahead.  Suddenly  he  turned.  "One 
thing  I  promise  you,  that  if  I  don't  make  good  soon, 
I  shall  give  up  the  easel  and  take  to  the  scaffold.  A 
good  house  painter  need  not  starve."  He  empha 
sized  the  words  with  a  forceful  gesture. 

His  friend  smiled  quizzically.  "That  sounds  very 
much  like  philosophy,  or  do  you  propose  reaching 
the  height  of  your  ambition  by  scaling  the  painter's 
ladder?"  Harvey  laughed,  but  made  no  reply. 

They  were  walking  rapidly  toward  that  section 
of  the  city  where  row  after  row  of  unattractive, 
dingy  houses  lined  the  sides  of  narrow,  ill-smelling 
streets.  An  ever-increasing  army  of  dirty-faced, 
unkempt  children  and  groups  of  slatternly  women, 
gathered  here  and  there,  made  it  plain  that  they 
were  not  nearing  a  fashionable  district.  After  cover 
ing  several  blocks  in  this  locality  they  turned  into  a 

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THE  MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

narrow  courtyard  which  connected  two  dungeon- 
like  houses  of  the  type  that  usually  shelters  the  poor 
of  New  York.  They  had  barely  entered  the  area 
when  a  man  emerged  from  the  shadow  of  the  oppo 
site  doorway,  and  tapping  the  older  of  the  two 
friends  on  his  shoulder  with  professional  coolness, 
said: 

"Mr.  Colgate,  I  am  sorry,  but  I  have  something 
for  you." 

A  look  of  consternation  gleamed  into  the  eyes 
of  George  Colgate,  for  he  recognized  the  speaker 
and  knew  the  purpose  of  his  errand;  but  he  mutely 
extended  a  trembling  hand  and  took  the  official- 
looking  document. 

The  hard  features  of  the  man  relaxed  slightly. 
"Hate  to  do  unpleasant  things,"  he  observed  with  a 
regulation  smile ;  "but  I  guess  you  will  pull  through 
all  right,"  and  he  turned  away  abruptly,  leaving 
Colgate  gazing  abstractedly  at  the  folded  sheet  of 
paper. 

"Come,  old  man,  don't  go  daffy  over  a  trifle  like 
that,"  Harvey  remarked,  taking  him  gently  by  the 
arm.  "We  will  find  a  way  out  of  the  labyrinth,  for 
the  present  let's  get  under  cover." 

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THE   MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

At  the  door  Colgate  paused  dejectedly.  "Just  a 
word  before  we  go  up,"  he  said,  consigning  the 
paper  to  his  pocket.  "Lydia  must  not  know  of  this." 
His  voice  broke  despite  his  effort  to  control  it. 

Together,  silently,  they  mounted  the  steps  of  the 
ill-kept  tenement.  Passing  on  up  to  the  third  floor, 
Colgate  opened  the  door  of  a  sparsely  furnished  but 
scrupulously  clean  apartment.  A  few  steps  took 
him  across  the  narrow  room,  to  where  a  woman  sat 
sewing. 

"Nothing  new,  sweetheart,"  he  said  in  answer  to 
an  inquiring  look  from  the  fragile  little  woman, 
whose  cheek  he  patted  with  lingering  tenderness. 

The  slight  tremor  in  his  voice  did  not  escape  the 
sensitive  ear  of  the  anxious  wife,  and  her  eyes  met 
his  questioningly.  Under  the  searching  glance  he 
flushed  visibly,  but  Harvey  avoided  complications 
by  coming  to  his  rescue. 

"Just  stop  that  bungling  love-making  of  yours 
and  go  to  your  sick  babies.  They  are  calling  for 
you!"  he  ordered,  pushing  Colgate  aside  playfully; 
"or,  if  you  wish,  you  may  remain,  and  take  a  lesson 
from  me."  And  he  stooped  over  and  raised  Mrs. 
Colgate's  toil-worn  little  hand  to  his  lips.  "A  trib- 

83 


THE   MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

ute  to  beauty  and  virtue,"  he  murmured,  depositing 
in  her  lap  the  bag  of  fruit  he  had  recently  pur 
chased. 

Colgate,  only  too  glad  to  escape,  passed  quickly 
into  the  adjoining  room,  and  Mrs.  Colgate,  who  ac 
cepted  the  fruit  as  she  did  the  compliment,  without 
comment  or  thanks,  rose  to  prepare  the  evening 
meal. 

It  did  not  require  a  keen  perception  to  discern 
that  poverty  was  no  stranger  in  these  small  rooms. 
It  was  in  evidence  everywhere;  in  the  wan  face  of 
the  woman,  the  seedy  clothes  of  the  man,  the  peaked 
looking,  fretful  children,  the  bare  floors  and  un 
attractive  surroundings,  the  weak  tea  and  stale 
bread  that  constituted  the  evening  meal. 

"I  cannot  understand,"  said  Harvey,  who  had  re 
sumed  the  reading  of  the  evening  paper  which  had 
been  interrupted  by  the  serving  of  tea,  "I  cannot 
understand,"  he  reiterated  vehemently,  "how  they 
can  call  this  man,  Martin  Livingston,  a  great  phil 
anthropist."  He  gave  the  paper  a  vigorous  slap 
with  the  tips  of  his  fingers.  "I  see  here  the  an 
nouncement  of  another  gift;  it  is  six  million  dollars 
this  year."  He  held  the  paper  nearer  the  dim  light 

84 


THE   MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

of  the  small  lamp  which  Mrs.  Colgate  had  just 
placed  on  the  bracket.  "This  is  a  summary  of  the 
benefactions."  And  his  voice  fairly  quivered  with 
excitement. 

Three  million  dollars  for  scientific  research;  two 
million  to  found  a  college  in  the  Philippines;  five 
hundred  thousand  for  the  promotion  of  education 
in  the  Congo  Free  State;  two  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  for  statues  of  eminent  American  educa 
tors,  and  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  for  ex 
periments  in  aviation. 

"Now  do  you  call  that  philanthropy?"  he  asked, 
settling  back  in  his  chair. 

Colgate  fidgetted  uneasily  with  the  fringe  on  the 
edge  of  the  tablecloth. 

"Do  you  call  that  philanthropy?"  repeated  Har 
vey  persistently. 

"Well,  yes,  Philip,  I  do,"  Colgate  replied  after 
some  hesitation.  "By  giving  large  sums  of  money 
for  educational  and  scientific  purposes,  Mr.  Living 
ston  is  benefiting  his  fellow  creatures;  that  is  cer 
tainly  philanthropy." 

"But  human  suffering,"  Harvey  interjected,  "hu 
man  needs,  the  cry  of  the  sick,  the  poor,  the  aged, 

85 


THE  MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

alike  fall  unheeded  on  the  ear  of  the  modern  phil 
anthropist.  Science,  libraries,  education  get  it  all." 

"No,  not  all,"  Colgate  ventured  mildly. 

"Oh,  yes,"  Harvey  reluctantly  admitted,  "now 
and  again  they  throw  a  crumb  to  the  dog." 

"When  you  consider  how  little  we  love  these  men, 
perhaps  we  get  as  much  as  we  deserve,"  Colgate 
said  meditatively. 

Harvey  leaned  back,  studying  the  profile  of  the 
man  before  him. 

"George,"  he  said,  after  a  momentary  pause,  "do 
you  know  that,  although  we  have  been  chums  from 
boyhood,  I  have  never  been  able  to  determine 
whether  you  are  a  fool  or  an  extraordinarily  good 
man." 

"I  don't  pretend  to  be  good,  Philip;  but  I  really 
think  that  misfortunes  tend  to  strengthen  and  de 
velop  one's  character." 

"There  is  where  we  differ.  I  think  it  is  apt  to 
make  more  devils  than  saints;"  and  having  relieved 
his  mind  of  this  opinion,  Harvey  resumed  his  men 
tal  survey  of  the  man,  for  whose  character  he  had 
profound  respect. 

"I  tell  you  what  I  think,  George,"  he  said,  after 
86 


THE   MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

several  puffs  from  a  well-colored  meerchaum;  "if 
some  of  the  people  who  spend  so  much  money  on 
anti-saloon  leagues  and  other  reform  movements 
would  do  something  for  men  of  your  stamp,  it 
would  stimulate  renegades  like  me  to  lead  a  better 
life." 

Colgate  did  not  reply.  His  thoughts  had  drifted 
to  the  appalling  seriousness  of  his  condition,  the 
paper  in  his  pocket  and  what  it  meant,  the  empty 
larder,  the  approaching  holiday,  and  its  consequent 
inaction.  These  were  a  few  of  the  ugly  facts  that 
were  passing  through  his  perturbed  mind. 

Harvey  saw  his  preoccupation,  knew  the  cause, 
and  his  generous  spirit  chafed  under  the  limitations 
of  his  slender  purse.  For  nearly  a  year  he  had  been 
a  sort  of  hedge  between  the  little  family  and  the 
sidewalk.  To  this  end  many  a  picture  had  found 
its  way  to  the  art  dealers  for  little  more  than  the 
proverbial  song,  but  of  late  there  had  been  no  pur 
chases  at  any  price,  and  his  own  needs  were  press 
ing. 

"Bah!"  he  exclaimed,  rising  abruptly,  and  com 
ing  from  out  the  shadow  into  the  centre  of  the 
dimly  lighted  room.  "What  a  d "  Just  then 


THE  MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

Mrs.  Colgate  re-entered,  and,  smothering  the  oath 
that  rose  to  his  lips,  in  modified  tones,  he  added, 
"failure  I  am." 

Colgate,  awakened  from  his  revery,  with  quiver 
ing  lips,  asked,  "And  what  am  I  ?" 

"Oh,  there  is  some  excuse  for  you,"  he  was  edg 
ing  his  way  toward  the  exit,  "you  have  a  family, 
your  long  illness  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Going  to  see  the  New  Year  in  ?"  Colgate  asked, 
by  the  way  of  changing  the  subject. 

Harvey  paused  at  the  door,  hat  in  hand. 

"I  am  going  home  and  going  to  bed,  that's  the  best 
place  for  a  man  who  hasn't  any  money  and  is  lucky 
enough  to  have  a  bed.  See  you  in  the  morning," 
he  added  with  a  parting  wave  of  the  hand. 

New  Year's  Day  dragged  along  uneventfully;  to 
the  occupants  of  the  cheerless  rooms  it  seemed  in 
terminable.  Colgate  counted  each  hour  as  it  passed 
and  welcomed  the  next,  only  to  wish  it  gone.  When 
night  came  he  went  to  bed  early,  but  with  every 
nerve  strained  to  the  utmost  tension,  sleep  was  im 
possible.  He  was  facing  a  crisis,  the  gravity  of 
which  no  amount  of  reasoning  could  minimize,  and 
he  was  anxious  to  be  up  and  trying,  for  though  he 

88 


THE  MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

dreaded  failure,  inaction  was  unbearable.  With  the 
first  gleam  of  day  he  rose  quietly,  dressed  hurriedly, 
tiptoed  from  the  room  and  so  passed  on  out  of  the 
house  to  join  the  great  army  of  the  unemployed. 

Lydia  Colgate,  who  had  been  aroused  by  the 
creaking  of  the  door  as  it  closed  behind  her  hus 
band,  sat  up  and  looked  around  blankly.  As  her 
eyes  fell  on  the  vacant  place  beside  her  she  clasped 
her  hands. 

"He  has  gone  without  any  breakfast.  How 
stupid  of  me,"  she  cried  fretfully. 

The  next  instant  she  was  peering  through  the 
window  into  the  dull  gray  of  the  foggy  winter 
morning.  The  rain  was  commencing  to  fall.  She 
sighed  penitently,  lowered  the  shade,  and  crossing 
over  to  where  a  small  mirror  hung  above  a  plain 
old-fashioned  table,  without  so  much  as  a  glance  at 
the  wistful  face  reflected  in  it,  she  began  brushing 
her  hair  mechanically.  The  thought  that  while  she 
slept  her  husband  had  gone  out  was  uppermost  in 
her  mind,  and  as  she  leaned  against  the  table  list 
lessly  plaiting  her  hair,  all  other  interests  were  tem 
porarily  suspended. 

Suddenly  a  child's  voice  broke  the  stillness.  She 
89 


THE  MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

started  and  turned  a  shade  paler,  the  plaintive  little 
call  coming  at  that  time  seemed  like  a  reproach  for 
another  duty  neglected.  The  idea  stirred  her  to 
action,  and  she  hurriedly  completed  her  simple 
toilet,  then  with  a  quick,  nervous  tread  she  passed 
into  the  room  occupied  by  her  children. 

A  few  minutes  later,  with  blanched  cheeks,  she 
staggered  across  the  threshold.  In  her  hand,  at 
arm's  length,  she  held  a  sheet  of  legal  paper,  the  one 
her  husband  had  placed  in  his  pocket  two  days  be 
fore.  Wide-eyed,  dazed,  she  read  aloud  the  printed 
form,  slowly,  haltingly,  word  by  word,  as  if  trying 
to  comprehend  its  full  import. 

Suddenly  she  paused  and  her  voice  fell  to  a  low 
monotone.  "It  must  have  fallen  from  his  pocket — 
he  was  keeping  it  from  me."  The  broken  sentences 
fell  almost  inarticulately  from  her  ashen  lips.  Grasp 
ing  the  back  of  a  chair  to  steady  herself,  she  leaned 
over  and  placed  the  cruel  ejection-warrant  upon  the 
mantel  with  a  chill  horror  born  of  the  knowledge 
of  what  it  meant,  then  appalled,  panic-stricken,  she 
turned  and  with  a  feeling  of  childlike  helplesness 
threw  herself  across  the  foot  of  the  bed,  wearily 
closed  her  eyes  and  prayed  for  help  and  strength. 

90 


THE  MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

"Lord,  I  ask  not  luxuries;  Lord,  I  ask  only  my 
children's  health  and  daily  bread."  The  voice 
trailed  off  into  a  low  moan. 

For  a  brief  interval  she  lay  placidly  as  if  over 
come  by  the  weight  of  perplexing  emotions.  Pres 
ently  her  lips  moved  slightly;  inaudibly  she  counted 
the  days  that  had  elapsed  since  the  serving  of  the 
notice,  and  she  grew  cold  and  faint  at  the  thought 
of  their  utter  destitution,  but  by  sheer  force  of 
will  she  threw  off  the  feeling  of  deathly  exhaustion, 
and  struggled  to  her  feet.  For  several  seconds  she 
stood  motionless,  unable  to  formulate  any  plan  of 
action,  then  her  glance  wandered  piteously  from  the 
empty  medicine  bottles  and  scant  supply  of  gruel  to 
the  two  little  forms  lying  side  by  side  in  the  adjacent 
room,  and  she  sank  back  quivering  in  the  chair. 

"God  help  me,  and  show  me  some  way  out  of 
this,"  she  sobbed  distractedly,  while  the  tears  fell 
on  a  crumpled  sheet  of  newspaper  lying  on  the  table 
before  her.  For  some  time  she  sat  staring  vacantly 
on  the  printed  lines.  At  first  the  glaring  letters  she 
saw  through  her  tear-dimmed  eyes  meant  nothing. 
She  read  and  reread  the  words,  "Martin  Living- 

91 


THE  MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

ston's  annual  gift  to  the  people,"  without  even  the 
consciousness  of  doing  so. 

After  a  while  her  eyes  wandered  to  the  next  line: 

Six  million  dollars. 

Again  she  read : 

Six  million  dollars. 

Suddenly  she  cried:  "This  man  has  six  million 
dollars  to  give  away — six  million  dollars !"  Clutch 
ing  the  paper  in  her  trembling  hands,  she  rose,  and 
stood  as  if  transfixed  by  the  magic  of  the  figures. 
Presently  her  eyes  dilated,  a  wave  of  color  passed 
over  her  pallid  face.  With  an  impulse  that  sug 
gested  hope  she  flung  aside  the  paper,  gathered  up 
her  writing  materials  from  a  near-by  shelf  and, 
seating  herself  at  the  table,  wrote  three  letters  in 
rapid  succession. 

This  done  she  slipped  an  outer  garment  over  her 
house-dress  and  stepping  into  the  hallway,  rapped 
on  the  opposite  door. 

"May  I  ask  a  favor  of  you,  Mrs.  O'Brien?"  she 
inquired  of  the  kindly  looking  woman  who  an 
swered  her  knock. 

Half  an  hour  later  Mrs.  O'Brien  was  peeling  her 
dishpan  of  potatoes  in  the  Colgate  apartment,  and 

92 


THE  MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

Mrs.  Colgate  was  ringing  the  doorbell  of  a  brown- 
stone  house  in  a  fashionable  quarter  of  the  city.  As 
the  vibrant  sound  of  the  bell  echoed  through  the 
corridor,  Miss  Gordon,  the  mistress  of  the  house, 
and  three  modishly  gowned  women,  who  were  as 
sembled  in  the  library,  paused  in  a  somewhat  ani 
mated  argument  and  glanced  expectantly  toward 
the  door. 

The  topic  under  discussion  was  the  disposi 
tion  of  two  hundred  thousand  dollars  left  for 
benevolent  purposes  by  the  late  Caroline  B. 
Stoker.  The  testatrix  had  not  specified  or 
even  suggested  any  charitable  object  to  which 
the  bequest  should  be  devoted;  the  disposal 
of  the  fund  was  left  entirely  to  the  judg 
ment  of  four  trustees,  women  who  had  been  inti 
mate  friends  and  co-workers  with  her  in  several  char 
itable  movements.  After  many  arguments  pro  and 
con,  they  agreed  to  devote  the  fund  to  certain 
philanthropic  projects  which  they  thought  would 
prove  of  infinite  benefit  to  the  poor  and  the  working 
classes.  The  result  was  that  each  of  the  trustees  se 
cured  a  tidy  sum  for  the  furtherance  of  her  pet 
scheme. 

93 


THE   MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

Mrs.  Potter,  the  president  of  the  East  Side 
Shakespearian  Club,  was  empowered  to  expend  sev 
enty-five  thousand  dollars  on  the  erection  of  a  small 
theatre  where  high-class  amateur  performances 
could  be  given  by  the  working  classes. 

Mrs.  Kemp,  on  behalf  of  the  Potted  Plant  As 
sociation,  secured  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  to 
aid  in  the  distribution  of  potted  plants  among  the 
destitute  of  the  city. 

Miss  Gordon's  proposition  that  twenty-five  thou 
sand  dollars  be  expended  on  automobiles  to  be  used 
for  recreation  purposes  by  the  women  and  children 
of  the  Ghetto,  was  ratified. 

The  suggestion  made  by  Mrs.  Stoker,  sister-in- 
law  of  the  deceased,  that  seventy-five  thousand  dol 
lars  be  donated  to  a  home  for  the  aged,  was  over 
ruled,  and  she  reluctantly  consented  to  its  appropria 
tion  for  missionary  work  in  China.  For  weeks 
these  women  had  conscientiously  studied  over  the 
problem  of  making  the  best  use  of  the  benefaction, 
and  now  with  the  possible  end  of  their  labors  in 
view,  they  were  awaiting  the  arrival  of  their  legal' 
adviser. 

Mrs.  Colgate,  never  dreaming  that  her  timid  ring- 

94 


THE   MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

ing  of  the  doorbell  had  caused  the  suspension  of 
such  important  business,  tremblingly  placed  in  the 
hand  of  the  maid  who  admitted  her  one  of  the  let 
ters  she  had  written  at  home.  Too  nervous  to  speak, 
her  fingers  closed  over  the  extended  hand  with  a 
pleading  pressure. 

The  maid  who  usually  took  letters  of  this  sort  to 
Miss  Gordon's  secretary,  and  knew  that  their  des 
tination  \vas  the  waste-basket,  looked  keenly  into 
the  wan,  anxious  face  and  a  feeling  of  pity  filled  her 
heart.  Guided  by  this  kindly  impulse,  and  regard 
less  of  the  reprimand  which  she  knew  would  fol 
low,  she  went  straight  to  the  library  and  placed  the 
note  in  Miss  Gordon's  hand,  hoping  that  the  direct 
appeal  would  bring  better  results. 

Miss  Gordon  was  not  favorably  impressed  by  the 
quality  of  the  stationery,  and  she  turned  the  en 
velope  over  critically  before  opening  it.  One  glance 
at  the  contents  was  sufficient.  Her  eyes  flashed  dis 
approval. 

"There  is  no  answer,"  she  said,  with  a  gesture 
of  dismissal. 

Mrs.  Colgate,  with  flushed  cheeks  and  breath  com 
ing  quickly,  leaned  against  the  staircase,  alternately 

95 


THE  MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

hoping  and  praying,  her  vision  focused  on  the  li 
brary  door.  Eagerly  she  scanned  the  face  of  the 
white-capped  messenger  as  she  recrossed  the  thresh 
old,  but  before  a  word  was  spoken  she  knew  the  an 
swer,  and  turning  away  to  hide  her  gathering  tears, 
she  glided  noiselessly  toward  the  door. 

The  maid,  quick  to  grasp  the  situation,  moved 
forward  swiftly,  and  reached  the  door  first.  "I  am 
sorry,"  she  said  as  she  held  it  open  for  the  droop 
ing  figure  to  pass  out,  "but  Miss  Gordon  does  all — 
all — this  sort  of  work  through  the  Bureau  of  Chari 
ties.  I  did  the  best  I  could  for  you." 

The  misty  eyes  of  Lydia  Colgate  looked  the  grati 
tude  she  felt,  then  she  stepped  in  silence  out  of  the 
vestibule. 

Slowly,  haltingly,  she  descended  the  snow-covered 
steps.  At  the  bottom  she  paused  for  an  instant  to 
gather  her  mantle  closer  about  her,  for  the  wind 
was  piercing  and  cold;  then,  with  only  a  vague 
sense  of  the  plan  she  had  mapped  out,  she  moved 
abstractedly  away.  After  awhile  her  steps  became 
more  resolute,  and  she  walked  on,  block  after  block, 
without  a  halt.  Turning  into  a  broad,  well-paved 
street,  she  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  curbstone,  and 

96 


THE   MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

looked  up  inquiringly  at  the  lamp  post;  then  she 
glanced  at  the  number  cut  into  the  stone  stoop  of 
the  corner  house,  and  continued  on  her  way. 

A  few  seconds  later  she  stopped  and  drew  a  long 
breath.  She  had  reached  the  goal. 

It  was  just  a  plain  unostentatious  house,  but  be 
hind  the  dingy  gray  brick  front  and  closely  drawn 
shades,  lived  a  woman  whose  name  was  ever  linked 
with  countless  dollars  and  deeds  of  charity.  It  was 
this  knowledge  that  caused  Mrs.  Colgate  to  creep 
timidly  up  the  steps,  and  to  peer  nervously  into  the 
sombre,  tapestry-hung  hallway,  while,  with  waver 
ing  voice,  she  asked : 

"Is  Mrs.  Ralston  at  home  ?" 

Nor  did  a  polite  affirmative  answer  restore  her 
courage.  On  the  contrary  a  feeling  of  fear,  sheer, 
child-like  fear,  stole  over  her  as  she  stood  in  the 
anteroom  of  the  philanthropist's  residence,  awaiting 
an  answer  to  her  second  missive.  So  varied  had 
been  the  day's  emotion,  so  severe  the  nervous  strain 
upon  her  weakened  vitality,  that  at  the  sound  of 
voices  in  the  adjacent  room,  she  turned,  and,  filled 
with  apprehension,  would  have  fled  from  the  house, 
but  before  she  reached  the  door  the  heavy  velvet 

97, 


THE  MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

drapery  at  the  further  end  of  the  room  was  swept 
aside  and  the  figure  of  an  elderly  woman  stepped 
into  the  vacant  space. 

Mrs.  Colgate,  arrested  in  her  attempt  to  escape, 
stood  abashed,  with  bowed  head. 

"In  granting  you  this  interview,  I  am  deviating 
from  my  usual  custom,"  the  lady  said  in  even,  well- 
modulated  tones. 

Lydia  Colgate's  heart  gave  a  joyous  bound,  but 
her  steps  faltered  slightly  as  she  advanced  toward 
the  calm,  dignified  woman  who  beckoned  her  to 
approach. 

Mrs.  Ralston,  for  it  was  she,  raised  her  gold- 
rimmed  glasses  to  her  eyes  and  surveyed  the  pitiful 
little  creature  scrutinizingly.  After  a  momentary 
pause  she  said : 

"I  am  sorry  that  I  cannot  do  anything  for  you 
personally,  as  the  Bureau  of  Charities  particularly 
requests  that  all  persons  seeking  aid  be  turned  over 
to  it;"  but  noticing  the  increasing  pallor  of  the  up 
turned  face,  she  added,  "I  am  devoting  all  my  time 
to  the  improvement  of  conditions,  and  other  impor 
tant  matters  along  that  line,  and  as  I  contribute 

98 


THE  MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

largely  to  the  Bureau  of  Charities,  I  must  refer  you 
to  that  organization." 

"My  husband  went  there  three  weeks  ago  and 
they  sent  some  one  to  see  us,  but  we  have  not  heard 
from  them  since,"  Mrs.  Colgate  managed  to  say 
with  some  degree  of  composure. 

The  tone  of  kindness  died  out  of  Mrs.  Ralston's 
voice.  "Then  there  must  be  some  reason  for  it," 
and  she  motioned  the  maid  to  show  her  visitor  to 
the  door. 

Mrs.  Colgate's  head  sank  until  her  chin  rested 
upon  her  breast.  She  did  not  attempt  to  say  an 
other  word.  Humbly,  mutely,  she  passed  down  the 
hall  and  out  of  the  house. 

The  cutting  winds  drove  her  along  the  slippery 
sidewalk,  and  the  falling  sleet  beat  without  mercy 
in  her  face,  but  she  did  not  heed  it.  On  she  went, 
seemingly  unmindful  of  everything.  At  the  crossing 
she  caught  the  full  fury  of  the  gale  and  her  cloak 
blew  open;  instinctively  she  put  out  her  hand  to 
close  it.  As  she  did  so,  the  letter  she  had  written  to 
Martin  Livingston  fell  from  her  nerveless  fingers. 
For  several  seconds  she  gazed  silently  down  on  the 
small,  white  envelope,  her  mind  a  maze  of  thoughts, 

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THE  MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

then,  like  a  flash,  the  recollection  of  her  children 
formed  a  connecting  link  between  her  purpose  and 
its  fulfillment,  and  a  look  of  determination  crept 
into  her  eyes.  Stooping  down  she  picked  up  the 
letter,  wiped  it  on  the  lining  of  her  cloak,  and,  turn 
ing  around  the  corner,  stopped  a  passing  car. 

"Wall  Street,  please,"  she  said  to  the  conductor, 
handing  him  her  fare.  Then  she  dropped  into  a 
seat,  and  for  the  next  half  hour  was  lost  to  every 
thing  around  her. 

When  the  car  reached  the  end  of  the  route,  the 
conductor  put  his  head  through  the  doorway  and 
shouted:  "This  is  as  fur  as  we  go,  lady.  Wall 
Street  five  blocks  straight  ahead,"  he  volunteered, 
noticing  her  hesitation  on  alighting. 

Down  the  narrow  street  the  little  wind-blown, 
rain-drenched  figure  trudged,  never  pausing  until  it 
stopped  in  front  of  the  large  building  in  which  Mar 
tin  Livingston  had  his  offices.  Passing  into  the 
commodious  vestibule  and  threading  her  way  tim 
idly  through  the  hurrying  throng,  Lydia  Colgate 
reached  the  elevator  shaft. 

"Office  of  the  United  Copper  Company,"  she 
whispered  faintly  as  she  entered  the  car. 

IOO 


THE   MODERN    PHILANTHROPIST 

Up  past  the  first  and  second  landing  the  car  sped. 

"United  Copper  Company,"  the  boy  said,  bring 
ing  the  car  to  a  stop  on  the  third  floor. 

Mrs.  Colgate  hesitated. 

''Office  of  the  United  Copper  Company,"  he 
shouted  impatiently. 

With  an  effort  she  roused  herself,  and  stepping 
from  the  crowded  car,  leaned  trembling  against  the 
marble  archway  that  led  to  the  office  of  Martin 
Livingston.  When  she  had  summoned  sufficient 
courage,  she  opened  the  door  stealthily  and  stepped 
so  timidly  into  the  room  that  not  one  of  the  many 
clerks  who  were  busily  engaged  noticed  her  entrance. 

Like  some  spectre  she  glided  over  the  heavily  car 
peted  floor,  looking  with  a  bewildered  air,  first  into 
one  room,  then  another.  Pausing  as  if  by  inspira 
tion  before  the  one  she  was  seeking,  she  crossed  the 
threshold  and  stood  in  the  presence  of  Martin  Liv 
ingston. 

The  great  financier  looked  up  with  a  frown.  He 
was  not  accustomed  to  having  persons  enter  his  of 
fice  unannounced,  and  the  presence  of  this  bedrag 
gled,  white-faced  woman,  with  her  wet  garments 
and  disheveled  hair,  grated  on  his  sensitive  nerves 

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THE  MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

and  deepened  his  annoyance.  It  suggested  suffer 
ing  and  want,  the  possibility  that  he  would  be  called 
upon  to  listen  to  an  unpleasant  story  of  poverty 
and  be  asked  for  aid.  He  did  not  wish  to  have 
his  sympathies  played  upon,  and  certainly  would  not 
give  where  he  was  not  interested.  Mrs.  Colgate, 
therefore,  looked  into  a  cold,  stony  face — a  face  so 
stern  and  severe  that  she  continued  gazing  into  it 
without  uttering  a  word. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  Mr.  Livingston  asked  impa 
tiently. 

"I  would  like  to  see  Mr.  Livingston,"  the  answer 
came  in  a  frightened  whisper. 

"You  have  gratified  the  desire,"  he  replied  with 
studied  deliberation.  "Now,  what  do  you  wish  to 
say?" 

And  he  leaned  back  in  his  commodious  leather 
chair,  with  that  air  of  superiority  and  indifference 
which  only  the  wealthy  can  afford  to  assume. 

The  pale  lips  parted,  but  no  sound  came  from 
them.  The  frightened  woman  advanced  a  step 
nearer,  and  stood  quivering  before  the  man  she  had 
come  to  see. 

The  blood  mounted  to  Mr.  Livingston's  face.  He 
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THE  MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

was  getting  tired  of  this  sort  of  thing,  and  he  con 
tinued  to  stare  back  blankly  without  evincing  the 
slightest  interest  or  encouragement 

"Well,  I  am  waiting  to  hear  what  you  have  to 
say,"  he  observed  in  frigid  tones.  There  was  no 
question  in  his  mind  as  to  why  she  was  there,  and 
he  awaited  her  answer  with  ill-concealed  irritability. 

Mrs.  Colgate  shuddered,  cowering  visibly.  For 
a  second  she  seemed  about  to  collapse,  but  with  a 
timid  cry  she  held  out  her  hand  beseechingly. 

"In  mercy  make  it  easier  for  me  to  say  it,"  she 
pleaded  piteously,  bravely  forcing  back  the  tears 
that  welled  from  under  the  half-closed  lids. 

The  appeal  passed  unnoticed,  but  in  the  moment 
of  silence  that  followed  she  seemed  to  gather  cour 
age,  for  the  color  surged  back  to  her  cheeks  and  a 
calm,  steady  light  shone  in  the  large,  sad  eyes, 
which  for  the  first  time  looked  unfalteringly  into 
the  impassive  face  of  the  man  before  her.  For  a 
full  second  she  stood  thus  as  if  trying  to  measure 
her  weakness  against  his  strength,  then  her  head 
drooped  slightly  forward  and  her  voice  rose  won 
derfully  sweet  and  clear. 

In  just  two  minutes  her  story  was  told,  simply, 
103 


truthfully,  plaintively.  When  it  was  finished,  with 
a  deep  intake  of  breath,  she  clasped  her  hands  and 
waited  meekly  without  so  much  as  daring  to  lift  her 
eyes. 

If  Mr.  Livingston  felt  any  pity  for  the  delicate, 
careworn  woman  he  did  not  exhibit  any  trace  of  it. 

"You  are  only  one  among  many,"  he  said  with 
cruel  coldness,  "and  were  I  to  assist  you  there  would 
be  an  endless  procession  at  my  door.  I  am  sorry, 
but  I  can  do  nothing  for  you,"  and  he  flicked  the 
ashes  from  his  partially  smoked  cigar. 

As  the  words  dropped  from  his  lips  with  icy  firm 
ness  the  slight  figure  swayed  backward,  tottered 
forward  and  fell  senseless  at  his  feet. 

Mr.  Livingston,  who  had  put  his  arm  out  in  the 
hope  of  breaking  the  fall,  stooped  down  and  took 
the  limp  hand  in  his.  For  a  moment,  just  for  a  mo 
ment,  a  look  of  pity  showed  in  his  face,  but  it  was 
instantly  suppressed,  and  rising  he  passed  quickly 
over  to  his  desk  and  gave  the  electric  bell  a  vigorous 
touch. 

"Phone  for  a  conveyance  and  send  this  woman 
home,"  he  said  to  the  boy  who  answered  the  sum 
mons. 


THE   MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

Then  he  put  on  his  topcoat  and  hat,  and,  without 
even  a  glance  at  the  unconscious  form,  he  passed 
into  his  secretary's  office. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Winter?"  he  inquired  of  a  clerk. 

"Gone  to  have  his  lunch,  sir." 

"And  Jackson?" 

It  was  Jackson's  business  to  guard  the  door  and 
keep  intruders  out. 

"He  asked  permission  to  go  and  have  a  tooth  ex 
tracted,  sir." 

Mr.  Livingston  went  as  far  as  the  second  door, 
then  he  turned  back.  "See  that  he  has  time  after 
the  first  of  the  month  to  have  all  his  teeth  ex 
tracted,"  and  he  left  the  office,  slamming  the  door 

behind  him. 

******* 

It  was  shortly  after  noon  when  Colgate,  pale  and 
haggard,  passed  through  the  door  of  a  cheap  lunch 
room  in  Park  Row.  He  glanced  anxiously  over  the 
heads  of  some  dozen  or  more  men  seated  at  tables 
near  the  entrance,  then,  without  waiting,  he  turned 
and  passed  out. 

Scarcely  had  the  door  closed  behind  him,  when 
Harvey,  coming  from  the  opposite  direction,  saw 

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THE  MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

his  retreating  figure,  and  started  on  a  lively  run. 
Catching  up  with  him  he  gave  him  a  vigorous  slap 
on  the  shoulder. 

"Good  news,  old  man!"  he  cried,  flourishing  a 
card  in  the  face  of  the  surprised  Colgate.  "You 
are  to  go  straight  down  to  this  address,  get  right 
up  on  a  high  stool,  and  there  you  are." 

Colgate's  hand  closed  eagerly  over  the  card,  while 
his  eyes  looked  inquiringly. 

"Don't  waste  time  asking  questions,"  Harvey 
said,  pushing  him  into  an  open  doorway. 

"Here  is  the  whole  story :  I  didn't  know  until  last 
night,  when  we  met  accidentally,  that  the  multi-mil 
lionaire,  Al  Smith,  was  a  college  chum  of  mine. 
Multi-millionaire!  Bah!  How  I  hate  that  word. 
Well,  anyway,  about  an  hour  ago  he  dropped  in  at 
my  room  to  see  me,  and  I  immediately  put  in  a  good 
word  for  you,  with  the  result  that  you  start  to  work 
to-day  and  receive  a  month's  salary  in  advance." 

Colgate's  lips  twitched  convulsively  as  he  grasped 
Harvey's  hand. 

"How  can  I  thank  you?"  he  said  huskily. 

"Don't  thank  me;  thank  Smith." 

"Well,  I  do;  still,  I  owe  it  all  to  you.  But, 
1 06 


THE   MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

Philip,"  and  his  face  fairly  beamed  with  gratitude, 
"here  at  least  you  will  have  to  admit  is  one  good 
millionaire." 

"Smith,  good!"  Harvey  laughed  satirically.  "I 
have  never  heard  that  before.  I  have  always  under 
stood  that  he  spent  his  money  on  fast  horses,  wine, 
etc.,  etc. — the  charming  et  ceteras  getting  a  goodly 
portion  of  it.  However,  he  is  a  fine  fellow,  and  has 
promised  to  do  all  sorts  of  things  for  me.  Come 
in  and  have  a  plate  of  soup." 

"No,  thanks,  I  am  anxious  to  be  off,"  Colgate  re 
plied,  edging  his  way  toward  the  crossing. 

Harvey  waved  his  hand  as  a  parting  salute.  "Oh, 
by  the  way,"  he  called  back  after  he  had  gone  a  few 
paces,  "I  am  to  have  a  studio  uptown,  and,  well,  it 
begins  to  look  as  if  I  shan't  have  to  paint  signs  or 
houses,  either." 

No  sooner  had  Harvey  disappeared  into  the  res 
taurant  than  Colgate  started  on  a  dog  trot  down  the 
street.  He  got  as  far  as  the  City  Hall,  then  he 
glanced  up  at  the  clock  and  hurrying  across  the 
park,  jumped  on  a  Broadway  car.  He  was  paying 
out  his  last  nickel,  but  what  did  he  care?  Was  he 
not  going  to  get  a  month's  salary? 

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THE  MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

Arriving  at  the  office  of  "The  Albert  Smith  Cor 
poration,  Limited,"  he  sent  in  the  magic  card  on 
which  was  scribbled  a  few  penciled,  words,  and  was 
immediately  shown  into  the  office  of  the  manager. 

"Ah!  Mr.  Colgate,  I  have  been  expecting  you," 
said  that  important  personage,  extending  a  hand 
with  affable  condescension,  "Mr.  Smith  phoned  a 
few  minutes  ago  advising  me  to  make  a  place  for 
you."  He  pressed  an  electric  button  and  a  boy  ap 
peared. 

"Take  this  gentleman  to  Mr.  Taylor's  depart 
ment?" 

"Mr.  Taylor  is  expecting  you,  Mr.  Colgate.  I 
have  instructed  him  with  reference  to  the  little  mat 
ter  of  salary." 

Colgate  muttered  his  thanks,  bowing  low.  He 
had  been  so  long  unemployed  that  he  was  as  grate 
ful  as  a  starved  dog  for  a  bone.  Never  was  he 
happier  than  when  he  ran  up  the  first  column  of 
figures.  All  day  long  he  worked  for  the  love  of  it, 
pausing  only  to  wish  that  his  wife  was  sharing  his 
happiness. 

When  five  o'clock  came  he  crammed  the  bills 
which  Mr.  Taylor  had  given  him  into  his  pocket, 

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THE  MODERN   PHILANTHROPIST 

got  into  his  overcoat,  and  rushed  for  the  trolley. 
Swinging  off  in  front  of  his  house,  he  ran  up  the 
steps  like  a  boy,  turned  the  knob  of  his  door,  a  smile 
on  his  face.  Strange,  there  was  no  light. 

"Lydia,"  he  called.  There  was  a  nervous  ring  in 
his  voice — perhaps  the  children — "Lydia !"  he  called 
again,  groping  his  way  toward  the  dimly  lighted 
room. 

The  cry  of  a  new-born  babe  fell  on  his  ear.  In 
the  semi-darkness  he  saw  the  figure  of  Mrs.  O'Brien 
approaching. 

Gently,  very  gently,  she  took  him  by  the  hand. 

"It  was  her  heart,  the  doctor  said." 

With  a  wail  of  anguish,  Colgate  bounded  across 
the  room  and  sank  down  beside  the  lifeless  form. 


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